The Humboldt Park lagoon 
is thick with my family’s blood.
It is swamp goo wrapped 
around limbs,
pulling you in with 
melodies of nostalgia
and wildflower tall tales.

It is home to the 
swamp water howls of our backstories.
A muttered myth 
of relatives
waiting warmly in the sand.
The same voices echoed 
across woven waters, as the 
the stillness of shallows listens.

My sister and I would float
and wonder if the 
beaches in Puerto Rico sang 
the same songs as us.
If there were 
other stories to be told, and 
other voices to sing our tunes,
other waters to drift in.

We wondered if water carried our stories 
back and forth between our homes.
If ocean water was cleaner than
lagoon water.
If we would ever sing songs
with coqui frogs
and dance plena with parrots.
If our stories made more sense 
with hidden accents,
the roll of seawater on our tongues
and mango in our hands.

And sometimes we would 
watch memories dance on the surface
and reimagine ourselves in them.
The flow of spirits
soaking in the sound
of enchantment,

and we thank them for our protection.

My sister and I spent summers naming
lagoon snails after our ancestors,
as pondwater’s warm embrace
wrapped itself around our skin.
We always found comfort 
in the dirty water
when no one else did.

The lagoon would call us in the middle of the night
and hide our past and future lives between tallgrass.
We’d creep down broken stairs 
tiptoe through sand
to the only place
we could hear tears ripple water
and laughter brush our lips.
Soaked our feet under moonlight
and croaked like island frogs of the past. 

And sometimes I can still hear the faint voice
of ancestral accents.
Water curls around their tongues
as fish whispers of 
old recipes and chisme. 
Here, water holds our heaven
tightly like abuelita arms. 
Listen to her underwater memory 
bathe us in remedies and eucalyptus.
Here, we are at home.

I will never hear 
the lagoon’s lullaby 
the same way 
again.