I went so many years undetected in my commie-pink tee, my outrageous poems where I thought I could say anything. No one arrested me despite my jokes. No one shot me when I raged on about a certain political party at parties. Here comes the volta where you think I’ll give into my fear. Instead I praise the conch shell, the wise dead who visit my dreams, the lizards and buzzards, the palm trees and palm readers, the clouds and paintings of clouds. The code-switching and codes. Damn that Supreme Taco Bell Party Pack, that orange trumpet flower.