The Bomba Man and The Blues Man want me to play a set.
The Bomba Man unstraps and sets down his tattered leather drum
and The Blues Man stretches his beaten-down guitar
against it and they tell me Escoge, Choose. And I still hear the echo
from their last duet, how the strings bounce off the drum’s skin, make ghost
out of the atmosphere, bend the soundwaves, wonder how I’ll help this jam

session expand. And I’m aware of how this has always been my jam—
choosing between percussion and string, pound and stroke. So I sit,
fully aware that the audience is waiting. Do they know what goes
on in my blood? How often I’m told to choose between a barril’s
heartbeat and the breath of guitar strings? How often echoes
of both slosh around in my veins? My English name picks guitar

and bluesy murmurs pound my ears so of course I turn guitarra
into cuá, try to beat this drum with it but the sound jams
itself down my ears and into the crowd. And the boos echo
against my skin, this piel café. How the notes sift
into my tissues and as they crawl through my genes I drown
in the crowd’s harsh glares. How I take this as sign they want drum’s ghosting.

And I pick up the cuá, think the trucutú trucutú fantasma
will make up for my failed bomba but hear Pa’l carajo and grab the guitar,
try to pluck its strings with the stick and my eardrums
tell me what I already know: how the crowd will jeer and jam
their disapproval in my face. My stomach starts to unsettle
and I can feel The Bomba Man and The Blues Man’s fingers echoing

inside of me, pounding my colon, strumming my intestines ’til they echo
like the perfect duet, blending of leather skin and string, singing niche spirituals
all throughout my insides. My lungs fill with their song, make my breath set
fire and I’m forced to repent for my failed blues, fall to my knees, drop the guitar.
The Blues Man cradles it, instructs Boy, don’t you know the feeling is in the funk, enjambed
notes and chords? The Bomba Man tells me It’s in the harmony of subidor and buleador,

m’ijo as he reclaims his cuá and saunters off, dragging away his misused drum.
And as the two start to play again I hear their lesson, how the guitar-strings echo
tie themselves around the heavy wood of the drum. How their perfect descarga
has never been about separation, but about letting all the ghosts
rise from their sleep and sing. And as The Blues Man’s fingers glide the guitar
I realize the audience are those ghosts, cheering on how The Bomba Man’s hands set.

And how could this set be anything but dream? Hypnotism of drum
aided by ethereal float of guitar notes. And of course I hear its echo
as I wake. I’m always chasing ghosts—can’t you see that’s my jam?