Varadero
Three-street town
with warnings
for falling coconuts
and police that
patrol beaches of
rum-drinking tourists,
flopped up on shore by
a turbulent sea of occupations,
spotting foreign breasts
partially submerged
in the turquoise surf
that makes all the
travel magazines,
who warns her with
a persuasive wave
of his own conflicted hand,
as the sun hides its face
behind a cloud,
turning the beach
and the waves
the same colour grey,
and just for a moment,
I closed my eyes
between cresting waves,
feeling the salt water
on my tongue.
Births
Thirty-two
on a beach in Cuba
wind blowing my hair
like a revolutionary
stoic at a rally
dying handless
in Bolivia
telling us
all about it
the face that
matches the name
that generations
of youth
can name
because they
know the meaning
in his frozen stare.
Postcards
piazza de San Francisco
books on display
used and rare,
cigar smoke
flavours the air,
trumpet player
blows his notes
to drown the tourist talk,
as they begin to flock
and steal his smile
for a peso.
Tour Guide
This is where
they make them,
she has said
five times already today,
in English, German, French
and a couple in Spanish -
gets four cigars a day
which she sells
to pay her way,
around the railings
and into the rooms
scooping handfuls of
tobacco to sweeten
her deal,
no cameras allowed
no secrets revealed
as she leads you
through the shop
where busy hands
fill manual presses
exporting to the world
little ashtray messes
sheepish smiles
from the rollers
barely looking up
for fear of missing
their quotas -
to, low and behold,
the H. Upmann sign
dangling from the
bright blue building
appears above a
police officer looking
tactical without moving,
the best is exported
the rest we keep here,
she says with a sigh
pretending not to notice
the Canon beside
Malecon
Waves crash over
the ramparts of the Malecon,
belching sea grass
on the feet of camera-packing
tourists, who walk past
the lone fisherman
in the morning sun,
liking the way
shadows fall on him,
taking a picture as he
catches breakfast
for his family.
Snap, a piece of art, you say?
without wondering if he took away
something to sell or eat,
fashioning a raft of dreams
while staring at the sea who
won’t give them up easy,
save for white water frozen
in foreign motherboards,
hanging on walls in black boarders.
Snap, a souvenir
like the leather etching of Che
you didn’t buy,
walking through the family business
hearing pride in the voice
of the owner,
who leads you by the hand, almost,
before you walk away,
leaving both of you with nothing,
and it’s not the same feeling,
because you’re on vacation
while she lives in the post card,
you get to be temporarily blinded
by a curious February sun,
as you relay to your friends,
that you just couldn’t believe it,
the fisherman knows
you never tried to see it.
The Vixen and The Crow
Ten pesos
gets you into
the red phone booth
(a bit of London in Havana),
tunneling down to
the Vixen and the Crow,
where jazz notes tickle
the air and tobacco smoke
blurs the faces of
the players and all you
can hear is the sound,
as you punch the mint
leaves making them drown
in your mojito
the ten pesos also provided,
the waitress brings them
anyway, while you
can’t believe the girl
in the green dress,
mixing her flute
in the jazz en trance.
