Endemic

Ceiba, its roots slate gray, thin and tall like walls,
provided protection contra el sol sofocante.
Provided materials for the Taínos to build canoes with.


Its bark was solid but kept over rough waves.
The canoe fishing, tradition. No one bats an eye
if you can’t catch a fish. Pero eres una anomalía


if you can’t cook a family dish passed down generations
that somehow skips you. Even the best canoe can’t navigate that.
Flor de maga, petals velvet, scarlet, size of a saucer.


La flor es el centro de una casa y una nación.
Destined to be decorative. Its roots know no bounds.
Crece en todas partes. This flora inspires substance.


Sustancia. Some people call it a hibiscus,
but the tree it flowers from is closer in kin to cotton.
La parte de ti that wants to bloom


would rather be la flor, pero tú estás la messy pale whirl of curls.
Estás desordenado. Fuera de lugar.
Tú tambien floreces. You soon will see it too.

Author of the article

Raised in the Pacific Northwest, S. Salazar has always felt at home in the mountains. As an English teacher, she strove to show students that success isn’t defined by background. S. is published in Harpur Palate, The Acentos Review, Booth Journal, Poet Lore, and elsewhere. She's currently juggling multiple poetry and young adult fiction manuscripts that explore generational trauma, identity, Latinx heritage, diaspora, and mental health. Her debut poetry collection, Raíces, Relics, and Other Ghosts will be published by Aldrich Press, an imprint of Kelsay Books, in 2023. When she isn’t writing, she can be found hiking with loved ones, talking to her parrot, Gizmo, and gushing over every dog she sees.