The heavens were born fatherless
and so were we.
Under Yúcahu’s sun,
we stretch like saplings.

He paints vessels under skin,
swollen rivers, olive green,
rivers blue for crimson sweet,
brackish reds spanned out like trees.

Atabey’s fertile earth
cradles burgeoning seeds
like salt crystals cradle
the waters of her beach.

But dirt that isn’t hers bares
strange fruit, growth
disturbed.
You need a visa
to see palm fronds
spawn maple leaves.