Carmen looks at me with soulful eyes.
“You can stay here, you know.
This land, it is beautiful.
It is good to write poetry.”
I know she is right.
What is better than flamboyan trees
and crystal water beaches
filled with laughter and singing-
not just drunken wailing
but actual harmonizing and rhythms
the rhythm of the sea?
What is better than being surrounded
by ancient mountains curtained with mystery
and graced by constant fog,
and the chorus of coqui
which hide in my grandmother’s well
from the grotesque human invasion?
I look at Carmen, hug her and begin to weep.
Not only must I leave this haunting place,
but I must never speak of it again.
Hearts can be funny that way.