"I’d always been told freedom would never come
for Puerto Rico. We didn't have the climate.
I ask the farmer about the strawberries. Son silvestres,
he responds, and points to their beautiful excess."
"Brimmer’s poema blushes with lifeblood in the cheeks, picks up its skirts and clatters onto tables, raises its fists in the alleyways. You could say it’s all for love, but love is only the curtain, billowing to let recognition sliding in like the thief you will give everything to, because he knows all your secret names. Of such musicality is the poem composed, that you will feel it in your bones, activating your pulse, sugaring your waistline, lifting your gaze to the box-windows where a thousand small flags of your patria fly. [...] Listen to the stroke-count. Simmer in the syncopation. Take the hand of the man next to you, that hand of plantains and congas and flags. Plant yourself in Puerto Rico."