after Pedro Pietri We were nocturnal players, Bats in ball, & ever since Don Pedro said There are Puerto Ricans on the moon The night is my cousin & the clustered stars My cousin & Saturn’s little ring of smoke my second cousin Though not the same ring as a freshly snapped Medalla bottle which My abuelo also named Pedro apparently liked too much But back to the moon the first rock dollop of sugar & slinging hoop in the dark which we learned was a game of approximation Less math more muscle memory less Mozart more Machito Like descarga more riff more wrist. We set our eyes on not seeing but feeling a thing through, indeed From elbow to hip wherever the orange lip might lead |
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