I am finding a new home

near the Delaware River’s mouth.

Specks of light on its surface

swirl into shapes of familiar nations.

Some like the ones from my parents, before,

some like the one I live in now,

(still reshaping).

I wasn’t kidding when I told you

being landlocked makes me antsy.

Mountains bruise my eyes with beauty

yet all I know are port cities,

their interminable movements,

their limitless farewells

(their contact).

Avarice may have chopped down my family tree

but I’ve been sorting through pieces

and finding the name “Marina” stacked

like a totem, on both sides:

Marinas from the island of Quisqueya and

Marinas who dipped the ends of their skirts

in the place where the Pacific is warm.

A trail of Marinas.

Protectresses of the sea

who savored the enchanting spot

where steady air melts to glittery deep

and day flows seamlessly to night.