L O R N A  K N O W L E S  B L A K E

Because I have no accent

from Permanent Address

people always ask me,

In what language do you dream?

By the ocean, always in Spanish -

Naranja dulce, limon 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: Isla 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 my dream's slender neck,

until Great-grandmother's murmuring

Celtic diphthongs 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 guanabanas 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.

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