609 Delicias, Vibora, La Habana, Cuba, and: Prayer for the Exhumation, and: Restoration

609 Delicias, Vibora, La Habana, Cuba

Strangers to the house, the house even stranger to us, we crowd the living room I've seen only in a black and white photo. We don't have much, the woman had said when we knocked, then opened the partitioned door. The walls in need of plaster and paint. The shutters open, windows grated, ironwork rusty. Of all my mother left behind, only a chair remains, its back missing, its arms speckled with candle wax and yellow paint. I study the navy cushion restitched lime green as if my mother sat there, fussing as her mother trimmed her bangs. My mother shakes her head, an I don't remember gesture, then she lingers, a perhaps.

Prayer for the Exhumation

Necropolis Cristobal Colon

"Let Poseidon rise, his waterspooling off his crown and neck,rushing down his back and down

his chest and off his hipsuntil his sea raises its headand arms over walls and down

the streets into this: these sleepingquarters framed north to south,east to west, its streets crisscrossing,

numbered and mapped, as neatlylaid as our dead, their armsfolded, fingers interlaced—how

we left him. Certain he'd remainentombed, its bleached stoneswarming every knuckle, rib

and tooth, marking his placein his ruin until someone stolethe plaque, pushed back the slab

and moved him from the groundsfor his ground. My father gone—for good. Let Poseidon crash

the gates and sink these graves andimmerse whatever still abides,whatever still lives, deep in a swell

that sloughs the island of its skin,until land and sea become one.Let fish feed along cobbled roads,

dart through arches and gatesas if coral reefs; let whales breednear the domes and birds alight

on the tips of steeples and crosses;let the horizon collapseinto the murky water, the clear blue

lost to silt and turmoil, as lostas my father. And years from now,if the sea recedes and the walls dry and the first palms seed,let someone find the cityand honor the remains,

all who were, all who called thishome, so our mourning can end,so, together, we might begin again."

Restoration

I

Yes, an island caught in time—you'd heardstories, read books, thought you knew

what to expect. You packed clothes, food,medicine, perfume—what others might need.

Now, in a cramped hotel room, you unlockthe suitcase, your second cousins nodding

thank you–thank you. Nod despite your fear,the food isn't enough. Outside, the walls

shed skin like sunburnt girls, buildings standwith three sides, balconies threaten to fall.

You travel from cemetery to church,wander street to street, plaza to plaza,

and snap shots of a saint missing its head,a burnt-out church, a monument of feet,

its body lost to rebellion. You unfoldthe map, refold the map. You open

the guidebook, its photos matte and dated,its pages smooth, its type small and finite.

II

Dream the city is on fire, inhale its heat,its sooty blackness. Wake, breathless,the sun browning your face. Rise,walk through the city of ruin. Someoneasks for milk, asks for bread, asks…Peer through broken windows, glimpsea hand cupping a mouth. Is it a handholding laughter, or a hand holding backwhatever needs to be said? Understandthe story about fish and loavesleavened from a basket to feed thousandsis not about faith, but about hunger.

III

Flamboyan petals beckon and burn.Let your eyes look, they will notdeceive. They see beyond

what you thought, they seewithout reason.

Taste flowers, bitter red.Sweet rum, the hint of mint. Your skintastes of salt, of diesel engines,of lemons. Ice cubes chill your teeth,a moment of sharp pain, until

laughter unrolls from someone's tongue,its sound a joy that couldtopple the houses around you.