para mi abuela en la isla A hurricane destroyed your sense of home and all you wanted was to pack your bags in dead of night, still waving mental flags, forgetting the nation is a syndrome. All that’s left of the sea in you is foam, the coastline's broken voice and all its crags. You hear the governor admit some snags were hit, nada, mere blips in the biome, nothing that private equity can’t fix once speculators pour into San Juan to harvest the bad seed of an idea. She tells you Santa Clara in ’56 had nothing on the brutal San Ciprián, and yes, your abuela’s named María. Thoughts of Katrina and the Superdome, el Caribe mapped with blood and sandbags, displaced, diasporic, Spanglish hashtags, a phantom tab you keep on Google Chrome, days of hunger and dreams of honeycomb. Are souls reborn or worn thin like old rags? The locust tree still stands although it sags, austere sharks sequence the island’s genome and parrots squawk survival politics whose only power grid is the damp dawn. There is no other way, no panacea. Throw stuff at empire’s walls and see what sticks or tear down the walls you were standing on? Why don’t you run that question by María? Beyond the indigenous chromosome, your gut genealogy’s in chains and gags, paraded through the colonies’ main drags and left to die. So when you write your tome please note: each word must be a catacomb, must be a sepulcher and must be a cradle in some sort of aporía where bodies draw on song as guns are drawn, resilient, silent h in huracán. Your ache-song booms ashore. Ashé, María.