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.
