Poems of Richard Blanco in Place of Mind

Looking for The Gulf Motel, Marco Island, Florida

There should be nothing here I don’t remember

The Gulf Motel with the mermaid lampposts
and ships’ wheels in the lobby should still be
rising out of the sand like a cake decoration.
My brother and I should still be pretending
we don’t know our parents, embarrassing us
as they roll the luggage cart past the front desk
piled with our scuffed suitcases, two-dozen
loaves of Cuban bread, brown bags bulging
with enough mangos to last the entire week,
a scoured pressure cooker, our espresso pot,
and a pork roast, the car still reeking of garlic.
All because we can’t afford to eat out, not even
on a vacation only two hours from our home
in Miami, but far enough away to be thrilled
by the whiter sands on the west side of Florida,
where for the first time I should still be watching
the sun setting, instead of rising, over the ocean.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember

My mother should still be in the kitchenette
of the Gulf Motel, her daisy sandals from K-Mart
squeaking over the linoleum tiles; she should still be
gorgeous in her teal swimsuit and amber earrings
stirring a pot of arroz-con-pollo, adding sprinkles
of onion powder and dollops of tomato sauce.
My father should still be in a terrycloth jacket
smoking and clinking a glass of amber whisky
in the sunset at the Gulf Motel, watching us
dive into the pool, the two boys he’ll never see
grow up into men that will be proud of him.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember

My brother and I should still be playing Parcheesi
and my father should still be alive, slow dancing
with my mother on the sliding-glass balcony
of the Gulf Motel. No music, only the waves
keeping time, a song only their minds can hear
ten-thousand nights back to their life in Cuba.
My mother’s face should still be resting against
his bare chest like the moon resting on the sea,
the stars should still be turning around them.

There should be nothing here I don’t remember

My brother should still be thirteen, sneaking
rum in the bathroom, sculpting naked women
in the sand. I should still be eight years old,
still dazzled by seashells, by how many seconds
I can hold my breath underwater. But I’m not,
I am thirty-eight, driving down Collier Avenue,
looking for the Gulf Motel, for everything
that should still be, but isn’t. I want to blame
the condos, their shadows for ruining the beach
and my past, I want to chase the snowbirds away
with their tacky McMansions and yachts, I want
to turn the golf courses back into mangroves,
I want to find the Gulf Motel exactly as it was,
pretend, for a moment, nothing I’ve lost is lost.

John Bailly, Daphne Major, 2006

Richard Blanco was "made in Cuba, assembled in Spain, and imported to the United States," where he was raised in Miami. A builder of bridges and poems, Blanco earned a BS in Civil Engineering and an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida International University. His acclaimed first book of poetry, City of a Hundred Fires, explores the negotiation of cultural identity as a Cuban-American. His second book, Directions to the Beach of the Dead, continues to explore themes of home, place, and identity.

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Richard Blanco *** Place of Mind *** John Bailly