Dom Blanco
REPRISE: EL FLORIDA ROOM
after Richard Blanco
A single grain of arroz grits between abuela’s teeth. She grinds at it, boring an index finger into her gums to pry the stone free. From across the table, she casts the same line: “Sí, te encanta la comida de Lela,” her voice looping through a delay. And she’s right—I’m stuffed with ropa vieja—meat shredded and drenched in a red sauce like a torn scalp; tostones hissed in a well of grease.
We retreat to El Florida with our cafecito. A column of ants drills across the linoleum, pillaging the kitchen. Abuela sinks into leather; it wheezes as she unleashes a high-pitched Ayyyyy. She mutters, “Soy vieja mi niño lindo,” and a cough erupts through her chest. I claim the recliner, the seat abuelo occupied months before his death. Abuela nods, scouring her kneecaps.
The white walls sweat grease. The ceiling thrusts down spiked vanilla frosting. The red hibiscus presses the window. The moon hangs over the clothesline, tethered to the shed where abuelo shelved his tools and hacked a rabbit with a machete. I drain los posos of the cafecito, bitter and cold. Abuela still battles the arroz, her eyes skipping over the glossy squares of me and Luke smiling in the ’90s.
The pachanga stokes my chest to a time my cousin’s mom cornered mine, demanding why she never taught us Spanish. I bolted, piercing the crowd for the sanctuary of abuela’s bed. Now, abuela blares Sabado Gigante. Don Francisco bellows, and El Chacal prowls the stage—a hooded figure stabbing the air with his trumpet.
Jolted from the caffeine, I test her, ask if I can smoke. She nods, a cough rattling her ribs. I light the Marlboro Red and flood the light. The cigarette is a prop between my fingers. Through the haze, abuela locks her gaze—not smiling, eyes pinned open. She doesn’t watch the boy who ran out of El Florida; she confronts her niño lindo, risen to occupy the chair that held an abuelo I never knew, only replaced.
The grain of arroz, pried free at last, shines on her lip.
Dom Blanco is a Cuban American poet from Miami, Florida, now based in Bloomingdale, Illinois. He is the author of Querencia: An Autoethnography, winner of the 2026 Paul Nemser Prize (forthcoming from Lily Poetry Review Books in 2027). A Blackburn Fellow and graduate of the MFA program at Randolph College, his work has appeared in MĀNOA Journal (Architectures of FuturoPasados), The Brooklyn Review, Huizache, Latin@ Literatures, and elsewhere. When not writing, he can be found basking in the sun like a meerkat or embarking on daily walks that lead nowhere.