SALT & HOWL

Salt & Howl

Ivan Guzman Polanco

I almost died.

Buried my dog.

Forgot how to walk.

Then Puerto Rico rolled up—like a Harley at midnight—

and said: Get on.

Café crema that tasted like ancestors.

Pastelillos that scorched my hands.

A blackout where buckets became drums.

One scream—and the jungle screamed back.

Not therapy.

Not inspiration.

Just raw, salty proof:

you’re still breathing.

And the island?

It’s waiting.

With rum.

And a beat.

Buy it.

Read it.

Howl.