Magic City
Maybe it’s the hibiscus trumpets blaring lifeamongst the green we take for granted
or the mangrove roots prophesying
that our legs could stand on land and sea.
Maybe it’s the salt we taste in the conch,
or at Virginia Key, or in our sweat like pearls,
each of us seasoned with joy. Here,
we speak the language of heat like love.
Maybe it’s how we pray with our lips
but call God forth with our hips, rockin’,
whammin’. Maybe it’s the music
we keep in our skin, immortal memory.
Maybe it’s our bloodlines, borderless and bronze.
What spell you figure blessed us with a home like this?