Costa Rica Says to Donald Trump “You’re Fired” (Carepicha)
I heard somewhere—from a head-
line, or from my father / ’s ashen lips—that 45
*******has landed in Costa Rica
to negotiate its buying its selling the latest, inevitable development
of a colonial green, not unlike the second-
ary forest where my family lives
among the guarias / their bone-white cattle / my slender monsters
one more monster we might be able to handle
but I’m not banking on it
I hope that when he sets his mustard seed eyes
on these peaks / our purple seas at dusk / the millions of birds
*******who sing my grandmother’s song
he’ll see the shit hole
**********************of which he speaks
and not a golden toilet with a golden bowl / and golden lid
(because all of us have scratched off its sheen / dented the precious
metal with our grandfathers’ machetes / dirtied the water with our own blood)
*******and disappointed, he gets back on his plane / rides a smooth jet stream
straight into the sun
so that we might, from our front porches of concrete / tin / coffee beans
and tiny glints silver
**********************witness the most spectacular sunset
**********************and turn to each other to whisper Está despedido