La Esperanza

I rode the Rio Grande's

mud green back

in a Starbucks cup,

drifted in the Gulf

between the mangroves

and the oil rigs' winking

red lights by night

under the milky white

smear of our galaxy.

Washed up

on the shore

of the island prison

where the interrogators

have less conscience

than the alligators.

I scrambled from

my paper coracle

into this land of

mythic bearded oracles

rusting chrome chariots,

amber rum, and songs about

kisses and two gardenias.

I dashed across

the scorching beach

to the sheltering hull

of an upside down

storm-battered fishing boat.

A faint inscription graced

the mahogany stern,

she'd once been christened:

La Esperanza