A Face to Meet the Faces: An Anthology of Contemporary Persona Poetry

Graciela and the Song of One Hundred Names

346 A Face to Meet the Faces Graciela and the Song of One Hundred Names Matthew Thorburn The sun fell into the harbor and the fishermen caught the last light in their nets. Now the sky darkens for rain, the salt breeze blows in from the sea. We sit knees to knees, Graciela and I, high in the hills in her house with its open windows. Who could be happier, she asks, than the man with two feet snugged tight in his stirrups? She thinks it unwise for a man to die on the same hill where he was born, but I will always have the dust of this place on my boots. Now the yellow boats knock against the dock, and soon the colored lights of Havana will blink on below us. I wish I had remembered my guitar, something to calm my hands, and find myself singing. How I long to be that swaying boat, the shadow following that woman’s body. I sang this for Graciela once at the Casa de la Trova, with Roberto my brother and his second-hand guitar. He never had a pick so he let his nails grow long. Portabales, what do you know, she says. Anyone can sing of love. And you are an old man who still wears his hat in the house. For this I have no answer but to take off my hat, wait for the silence to slip down on us, blue as the scarf Graciela carries to church to cover her shoulders. She laughs, lets down her dark hair with its two rivers of silver. Seeing Graciela in moonlight, in starlight, I must remember to keep breathing. She smoothes her dress, gives me the look that says I know what you are thinking. You are wrong, but that is alright. At the end of each day I walk the cobbled streets of Havana, 347 Not the Poet, Not Me past the beach littered with the bicycles of swimming boys, to climb these hills. I cannot tell Graciela I wish to grow old with her. She would only say we are already old. Now she asks me to sing her the song of one hundred names. My name is Morning, my name is Two Blackbirds in Moonlight, I sing. My name is Graciela of the Red Hills. And now she sings to me, My name is Portabales of the Dusty Boots. My name is Pockets Full of Centavos. If you wish to dance, she sighs, still singing, you better find someone else to finish this song. My heart fights with my blood. It’s late. We should turn on a light or light a candle. But why? Now we are only our voices. Then her hands find mine, and my lips. We dance. Now we are only our bodies. We upset a chair, rattle the dishes on the table. My name is Lemons Yellowing on the Lemon Tree. My name is Clouds Tickled Pink by the Moon. Graciela, my name is The Blue Sheet of Morning Hung Out to Dry. ...