By Carolina Hospital

Surf Drive, 7 around the pandemic table, sobre mesa every
night, with the girls growing up, with partners and baby now.

Born on day 27 of year 1957, after God made the universe by day
7 to rest in sacredness and spiritual perfection. Could I be perfect?

En la charada cubana, the 7 is a shell or Yemaya, la Virgen de Regla.
I used to play the piano scales, in Western music based on 7 notes.

Light passed through a prism splits into 7 parts. In the Bible, 7 appears
more than 700 times without counting sevenfold, 70 or 700.

In Confucianism 7 is a combination of yin and yang and 5 elements:
metal, wood, water, fire and earth, together in harmony in Taoism.

Every 7 years changes occur in the body. We have 7 bones in the face,
neck, and ankle and 7 holes in our head.  There are 7 crystal systems.

My fifth, throat, chakra, one of the 7, is definitely unbalanced, or maybe
it’s my third-eye. I will write these words in turquoise and sing them later.

The 7 colors of the rainbow, the 7 days of the week, a prime number.
Seven used to be siete, which sounds like cielo; I was siete in San Juan.

At siete, I didn’t understand how far I would travel from my prime;
we have composed a new melody, under watch of the Seven Sisters.

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Carolina Hospital has authored Key West Nights and Other Aftershocks and Myth America, a poetry collaboration with Maureen Seaton, Holly Iglesias and Nicole Hospital-Medina, both by Anhinga Press; as well as The Child of Exile: A Poetry Memoir (Arte Público Press), and the novel A Little Love, under the pen name C. C. Medina (Warner Books); Her work has appeared in publications, such as the Norton Anthology of Latino Literature and Bedford/St. Martin’s Florida Literature.