why a Cuban living in the NW isn’t going to write about rain or salmon

right off — there’s already enough rain
I’m not inviting it into my poetry

salmon—this fish whose body
torques up ladders —
has enough problems

if you’re Cuban
and wind up in the Pacific Northwest —
the ecstasy of your dreams is pocketed until August —
the only month of certain heat

you troll the Asian produce stands
for malanga, scotch bonnet peppers,
and the elusive green plantain

you wait months for the only Desi Arnaz CD in the Seattle Public Library’s holdings —
even though there aren’t any other holds