Island Girl - Gianna Cook

Island Girl

GIANNA COOK

Island girl, Skin the color of the coasts, Hair a shade of jungle tree bark, Eyes to match.

The girl is an island. She doesn’t speak the language, Her heart doesn’t beat with the sounds of a Puerto Rican night. Coqui, Coqui

The Coqui is indigineous to Puerto Rico, Their croaks signify their own name, Loud and proud, As all true Puerto Ricans are.

The girl is an island. She’s Americanized Unaccented english, Raised on white bread, Fried sweet plantains from Pollo Tropical.

She’d never been until she was 11, She didn’t embrace relatives unknown, They called her a diminutive of her mother And she shied away from a response. La bebe de mama ay que linda eres How beautiful the baby of her mother is

The girl is an island. Born from an unholy matrimony, No matrimony involved, A bastard, as archaic as it sounds. Birthed under a surname for a resume template. Jokingly called a gift from the white devil, Mother and father hold hands, A nice caramel vanilla swirl.

The girl is an island. She claims puerto rico Like the many cousins she doesn’t know, Coldly, separately, factually, Like a well wisher to disaster.

The girl is an island. She tries, Stumbles, And tries again, Defiantly standing still.

Island girl, She tries to make Cornmeal And Pastelitos, (Never try to make your own puff pastry.) She tries to know a land as hers, To reorient existence around what was a missing limb

poetry