Nélari Figueroa Torres

CARIBBEAN FRUIT (IN BUNCHES)

The Caribbean teaches you what it means to be the richest poor person / with mangoes, avocados, and plantains appearing on your doorstep / delivered by storks / bunches rain down / shower into you like blessings / and curses / wrapped around thick skin / and God’s prayer. 

The Caribbean redefines its sticky, repurposes its sweet, into bites of year-long fruit / dangling / from ears and necks and trees / rested on countertops, floors, open palms, plastic crates, in wet mouths / dripping like a smile / from east to west / dripping like a Hurricane / from cheek to cheek / sweet like coils / sweet freckles / sweet fruit.

The Caribbean grandmother shows you candy / fabricates recipes / quilts squares / of love of patience / of frustration / of sugar in a hot pan / bubbles and fruit turn magic / crystalize into precious jewels / dripping gold / child sneaks licks of a spoon dipped in glory / sunk into itself. / and pearls shine with each supple bite / never left unsatisfied once left to hang through mosquito nets and Sunday lunches. 

The Caribbean mother shows you the value in growth the humility in reckless blooming / the peace in budding / and falling / that when you fall off the tree and bruise your sungiven skin you still taste just as sweet, / no mires pa’ ‘tras ni pa’ coger impulso, / your vibrance isn’t dimmed by bruises, but by worms that crawl into your ears / and out of your mouth / whispering lies sopping with insecurity / spit.

The Caribbean child is born knowing / believing / in cures from gentle holds / the power of a tree’s shadow / the price of their fragmentation / the bounty in them as fruit, sauntering down trees on balmy afternoons / perpetually luster cascades of remastered butterscotch. / knowing that as long as the monarchs live, their crowns will flourish heavenward / a life-long reign / how as long as the monarchs live, their gardens will remain a year-long spring / a life-long dessert.