that mote in a cartographer's eye,
interests you?
Today Atlanta is like a port city
enveloped in mist. The temperature is
plunging with the abandon
of a woman rushing to a rendezvous.
Since you ask, things were simpler
on the island. Food and shelter
were never the problem. Most days
a hat and watchful eye were all
one needed for protection, the climate being
rarely inclement. Fruit could be plucked
from trees languishing under the weight
of their own fecundity. The thick sea
spewed out fish that crawled into the pots
of women whose main occupation was to dress
each other's manes with scarlet hibiscus,
which, as you may know, blooms
without restraint in the tropics.
I was always the ambitious one, overdressed
by my neighbors' standards, and unwilling
to eat mangoes three times a day.
In truth, I confess to spending my youth
guarding the fire by the beach, waiting
to be rescued from the futile round
of paradisial life.
How do I like the big city?
City lights are just as bright as the stars that enticed me then,
and in a crowd,
everyone is an island.
By: Judith Ortiz Cofer
