after Pedro Pietri
We were nocturnal players,
Bats in ball, & ever since Don Pedro said
There are Puerto Ricans on the moon
The night is my cousin & the clustered stars
My cousin & Saturn’s little ring of smoke my second cousin
Though not the same ring as a freshly snapped Medalla bottle which
My abuelo also named Pedro apparently liked too much
But back to the moon the first rock dollop of sugar
& slinging hoop in the dark which we learned was a game
Less math more muscle memory less Mozart more Machito
Like descarga more riff more wrist.
We set our eyes on not seeing but feeling a thing through, indeed
From elbow to hip wherever the orange lip might lead
Copyright © 2022 by Denice Frohman. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on October 6, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.