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My Husband, Just Returned from a Visit to Havana Gifts of coffee and fine cigars, Cuban rum mellow as cognac, all stripped of conspicuous labels mound the table between us. Odalisque island reclines on a hip her sinuous spine, east to west, rippling mountains and rivers. My courier's eyes are the shirred gray of blown cloud. I borrow from them musical streets Communist rubble prostitutes in mango dresses voluble children and men on the make--their skin the luscious flavors of figs and dates. Cuba calls my husband back. His admiration shows me a cobra extending itself for the charmer. He loved her at once because she is not his country. I try to remember: when did I depart the isle of romance? And pater-dictator, Fidel at a distance--how frivolous now to be faithful! Oh Cuba, beautiful girl, stop your singing, this man comes running--believe me, I know him, he’s yours. |
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Issue #28, August, 2002 :
Santa Fe Poetry Broadside.