Is a bay on the mountain possible?
I want Bayamón to be the place
that makes it so, for what its syllables
do to my brain while they tussle
and grunt in that small blue place.
It seems the only thing
differentiating butterflies from moths
is that butterflies aren’t moths.
Isn’t it true with rage too?
That rage isn’t desire
because it has a pinch less of glow?
I think I may have a problem with that,
with the Taíno Indians of Puerto Rico
tricking me into a dream:
Bayamón comes from Bayamongo,
the river that bisects the city.
At least there is something salvageable
left to the land of the pork rind:
a place where you might fall in love
with the person falling to pieces
in the automobile next to you—
traffic more famous than the rum—fantasy,
where all objects are named by what
courses through them, where one thing
is—at least for a moment—
one thing, where Man remains
a secret, fixed. Or if he emerges, Man
be called blood, controlled in that way,
named again. And the eucalyptus, alone
on the mountainside, be called flame.
Britt Melewski grew up in New Jersey and Puerto Rico. His poems have appeared in Puerto Del Sol, The Philadelphia Review of Books, Sporkpress, the DMQ Review, and are forthcoming in The Avatar Review. Melewski received his MFA at Rutgers-Newark in 2012. He lives in Brooklyn.