the island is full of palm trees
sandy beaches spilling out onto stormy seas
and there's fruit rolling in the streets of every town
and people spend all their time waiting for it to cool down.
my grandmother once lived in a shack up in the mountains,
spent her time fishing for coins in the downtown fountains,
washed clothes with her bare hands down in the river
and sympathy, no one would ever give her.
my grandfather once spent his nights serenading the moon,
and over his voice, all the women would swoon;
but he wore pants made of burlap and belts of rope,
his eyes filled with insanity, void of hope.
the island was full of violence and crime,
and the blood stained cement has not faded with time.
stray dogs and homeless men prowled the streets
and from lines of rope from home to home, people hung their sheets.
my grandmother once stole food from unsuspecting men,
cried herself to sleep time and time again,
kissed boys through fences with a blushing face
and felt ashamed for "taking up too much space."
my grandfather raised cattle, a mere poor farm boy,
and with his body covered in bruises, he never knew joy.
he shrunk in his own skin, attempting to escape the abuse,
but the shadow of trauma, he would never lose.
the island never bore enough fruit,
and every child's innocence, it had to pollute.
the jungles are dangerous, feral, wild
but so was each and every child.
my grandmother was a girl of few smiles
and with her school-girl outfit, attracted pedophiles.
she lied about her age and flaunted her curves,
lived her adolescent life with no reserves.
my grandfather kept his psychosis in his back pocket like a switchblade,
he carried himself like he was a short-fused grenade.
silently insane, a ticking time bomb,
and in his core, he was never calm.
the island is home to brown outs and droughts,
and through the streets echo disembodied shouts.
it's a lonely place, filled with pain and regret,
and memories they can never forget.