En el cielo, fronteras no hay

Silvio sings to me
from across the embargo line,
a specter from Cuba decoded off ribbon.
My body, coral reef white, city
fluorescent light, cold as bathtub porcelain,
soaks in the Straits of Florida.
This lilting song blows breath
into debris, what once ventured
across livid ocean and broke apart
into planks engorged with water,
splintered ribs of a galleon
crusted over with limestone
of sessile sea dead that settled
to the bottom. But there is life.
Brain coral mounds, fan coral maroon
on the apex. Gurgles caress, gentle waves
lap twined mangrove roots
where sleek crustacean children sleep.
My hair swirls, a sea anemone
stretching out stinging fingers.
His voice nibbles on my hip.

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