spring in Canóvanas Puerto Rico 
is impulsive. sugar cane fields
growing tall enough to thrash-- did you
come forth from the soil like the 
coffee bushes or el platanal?
or did the moon take a human man
for a lover again? you growing
through winter beneath a veil 
of clouds & tired ocean. he went
back to his family the next morning
to tend the goats & the sheep, hands
still cold from the cratered-surface
of her skin. his wife would breathe 
on his hands & wonder what could have made
them so hard like limestones. 
you come forth from el río herrera
run red, dripping with afterbirth,
sinews & veins. the spring has always
been hungry, plunging roots deeper 
into our skin. where does your hunger
come from? your unavoidable need for
blood. like you i have been ashamed 
if it. of craving. of thirst. 
as you walked by night, draining each  
maroon-scabbing creek & stream, moving on
towards the wooden fences of fields.
i believe you chubacabra. i believe 
that you didn't mean to leave carcasses.
first the goats, three pronged punctures
on their necks. on to the cows, who, with
rolling eyes, fell like tree torsos.
maybe after feeding you ran & laid
down on a stone near the brook, just listening
to the thrush of your own heart.
do any of us truly have control over
our bodies? i sit measuring raspberries
by the cup, each approximately 1 calorie 
bleeding on the counter top, our mouths
color murder, do the stains wash out
when you wipe your hands in the supple 
grass? do you scratch at your forearms
with twigs & brush? begging your body to be
less ravenous. over 150 farm animals
around the town area & onward towards
las piedras & juncos. did you stop at
the ocean & wonder if the salt could purify you.
if maybe there was enough to replenish 
the blood you drank. washing your face.
the bathroom mirror an open sore. come find me.
together we can take inventory of  
everything we've eaten. void me. i want 
to feel less guilty. wash berries in
the smooth  metal bowl.