Ghazal for Hispaniola
For a moment those returning are beyond reproach, and every hand on the airplane says “Come meet your sweet brother and clap.” We – I – land.
After slow miles in the sea, after cutting his hands climbing out up the cliff face, after thinking he would fucking die, hear the migrant choke it out: “it’s land.”
“How can drought be drought?” Don’t answer. “It was diaspora or death.” The plain of Azua silent in the sun, Barahona mourning a black and broken rock. “Barren home, it is you I slander.”
Now not a single tree left on the border between brother and brother, now “Fuera los Haitianos,” secure the frontera kill the charcoal hawkers, sharecroppers, play those genocide blues again you sad and shriven isle.
Who said Spain, The Church, Gringo, and Whiteness? Amor is mulatto, and no man is an:
Yet my father would be, with his nine millimeter and his money, blanquito of a dark island.