I bring saltwater in my blood,
but the mountains ask for stillness—
they do not know the pull
of tides in the bones of men like me.

Each ridge forgets the shoreline,
each pine denies driftwood.
I sleep among limestone whispers,
brown skin mistaken for autumn bark.

This land was not made for my voice—
but I carve it in the silence,
make the birds speak Spanish,
make the sky remember hurricanes.

My body is not out of place—
the map just lacks imagination.