Balseros ©Al Diaz/The Miami Herald
Jorge Sanchez
Balseros
The vivid sea-crust never seems to really fall off
of balseros; there always seems a certain fiery
saltiness, a lustiness, a dead-on, no-surrender
grip on life. My wrestling coach, ironically
named Fidel, came over on a raft. He told
of this cucuyo he caught before he left
that lit the whole way across the straits
and died as he was rescued on Elliot Key.
Another was a janitor who braved the dark-blue
tightrope of the straits with his baby son
and two other men on a pair of inner tubes
(I saw them!) lashed together with a few odds-
and-ends secured like random amulets
of safe crossing. There was a long-lost
second cousin, too, who’s somewhere adrift
in the Cuban-Miami sea. The one who shines
for me, though, was the driver who took
my brother to prom. The white limo pulled
up, gaudy with a Superman logo tagged
on the back, and out leapt Jefe: in tails,
having grown up never thinking he would wear
such fancy, high-end duds. His life
the ideal of the balsero, of anyone
escaped from stifling place: having fled,
theatrically, from that oppressive island,
he sends word back to his family about dressing
to the 9s every night and driving a white
chariot, bigger than life, emblazoned with an S.
Bio:
Jorge Sanchez received his MFA from the University of Michigan and currently lives in Chicago. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Indiana Review, Iowa Review, Poetry East, Hotel Amerika and The Adirondack Review (online).
