By Martin EspadaOn his first visit to Puerto Rico,island of family folklore,the fat boy wanderedfrom table to tablewith his mouth open.
One even sang to him, in all the English
she could remember, a Coca-Cola jinglefrom the forties.
Then, at a roadside stand off the beach, the fat boy
opened his mouth to coco frío, a coconutchilled, then scalped by a macheteso that a straw could inhale the clear milk.
For years afterward, the boy marveled at an island
where the people drank Coca-Cola and sang jingles from World War IIin a language they did not speak,while so many coconuts in the treessagged heavy with milk, swollen and unsuckled.
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