Birthright

I often wonder--

after all these years--

if the blood has dried up

yet.

San Juan,

You will never meet martyrdom.

The Rich Port,

is still owned.

The country that rules you

will not pay for you.

Nor will they accept you.

Nor will they cut the

umbilical cord.

Were they there when the hurricanes 

touched down?

No.

Did they see when the storm brought water

and winds

and wrecked crops

and shook concrete houses?

No. 

Did they see Carmen's 

childhood home

torn away?

The stone foundation

weeping 

in the mud.

No. 

They didn't. 

Nor were they there to rebuild 

anything.

But they took, 

and took,

and took,

and gave 

nothing but grief.

Falling cane,

and raising cane.

And they poured sugar

in their coffee.

They poured sugar

on their corn flakes.

They poured sugar 

in their tea.

They poured sugar

into their cake mix.

And the sugar cubes 

fell like Domino's.

Sugar 

makes blood

look pink.

So pink 

that the rich

mistake it 

for Himalayan 

salt.

But the calloused hands 

know the truth.

The worried mothers

and the children 

without shoes

know the truth.

The sugar

is anything 

but sweet.