people always ask me,
In what language do you dream?
By the ocean, always in Spanish —

Naranja dulce, limón partido —
my sisters are turning a rope,
calling out their counting rhymes

in the shade of an old roble,
which is an elm tree if I dream
I'm somewhere else. In the distance

islands bead the horizon
into a chain of names: Isle Culebra,
Isla Mona, Caja de Muertos. Seconds later

the scene turns cool; mossy
green hills rise from low stone
walls as the island becomes Ireland.

Now the boot of English
steps on me dream's slender neck,
until Great-grandmother's murmuring

Celtic diphtongs fill my sleep,
rustling like sails that propel me
into her safe harbor of softer vowels.

Sleinte, she calls, as I return
to the crisp cadences of parents
and their houseguests, who mingle,

consonants clinking like ice cubes
in highballs brought out to the pool.
Two criadas cut up guanábanas and gossip

while the children of the house
lurk in the kitchen, listening to wild
romances on the radio-novela. Voices fade,

my dream stalls in the city's
glottal morning, but all night long
I travel over language, that swaying bridge.