Love letter to my city.
Santo Domingo, Summer of bad songs. The Cayenas grow out of cracks in the sidewalk and scream with yellow tongues: "Get inside! Get out of the sun!"
And I swear, it's never burned like this before.
Not much changes on a island. Time is trapped in the slap of domino pieces, coming down loud like open palms or belly-flops. Women put away their lives the same way they fold and put away clothes. Homeboy still kisses as hard as he hits. Rain comes down like spit on the sidewalk and the rum don't even burn on it's way down no more. Every day the same fight about the best way to cook plantains. Every day the same stray dogs looking sicker and ready to die. Poking at starvation with their ribs. Licking the salt off the sidewalk near the shore. And yet, every day there's more of them. Every day they're still here. Things don't change on an island. Right down to the smiles of the same children, bellies bloated with parasites. Right down to the way tears roll out sweet and heavy, to the fast and steady beat of that salsa he tought you to dance to. Right down to the way your Abuelo's desk has been left untouched, even a year after he gasped in the dark and grasped the edge of the bed whispering "I think it's a heart attack". Things never change on and island.
Santo Domingo, City of Dogs. The girl down the street gives birth to social dillemas. To the rosary I say, I'm still waiting on those miracles. Santo Domingo, yesterday I read that you sold your tongue for a knot of electric wire and two pesos worth of chewing gum. That you trim your wildlife fingernails with machete blades. That mosquitoes breed in your tear ducts.
The ocean licks at your resort-lined shores, and maybe if we dig enough holes you'll sink right back in.
There is something wrong with my island, where even the palm trees double over in pain.
Santo Domingo, these are very bad times to be writing you love letters.
And I swear, it's never burned like this before.
Not much changes on a island. Time is trapped in the slap of domino pieces, coming down loud like open palms or belly-flops. Women put away their lives the same way they fold and put away clothes. Homeboy still kisses as hard as he hits. Rain comes down like spit on the sidewalk and the rum don't even burn on it's way down no more. Every day the same fight about the best way to cook plantains. Every day the same stray dogs looking sicker and ready to die. Poking at starvation with their ribs. Licking the salt off the sidewalk near the shore. And yet, every day there's more of them. Every day they're still here. Things don't change on an island. Right down to the smiles of the same children, bellies bloated with parasites. Right down to the way tears roll out sweet and heavy, to the fast and steady beat of that salsa he tought you to dance to. Right down to the way your Abuelo's desk has been left untouched, even a year after he gasped in the dark and grasped the edge of the bed whispering "I think it's a heart attack". Things never change on and island.
Santo Domingo, City of Dogs. The girl down the street gives birth to social dillemas. To the rosary I say, I'm still waiting on those miracles. Santo Domingo, yesterday I read that you sold your tongue for a knot of electric wire and two pesos worth of chewing gum. That you trim your wildlife fingernails with machete blades. That mosquitoes breed in your tear ducts.
The ocean licks at your resort-lined shores, and maybe if we dig enough holes you'll sink right back in.
There is something wrong with my island, where even the palm trees double over in pain.
Santo Domingo, these are very bad times to be writing you love letters.