Margarita Engle

 

Flying Pigeons

Sleek migrants from China
   the bicycles that flock to Havana
   are called
    Flying Pigeons

They fly along cobblestone streets
   down steep hills
swift gliding
descent

Each journey
   a brief respite
   from motionless heat
   each soul like the sail of a boat

Or a wing
   that knows how
   to create
    its own breeze

 

The Queen of Lyrca

Would tourists stare and laugh if they understood
why island women of all shapes and sizes
wear the same styles?

old and young, slim, obese
everyone is tightly bound in the same clinging fabric
the only surplus material this year
such a difficult, slippery texture
to cut and sew.

The only seamstress who can handle
her entire neighborhood's rationed measure
of sweaty yardage
is honored by women of all sorts
ancient, youthful, pregnant, skinny, all are grateful for the dignity
of a garment well-stitched
now that all the other, more suitable bolts of cloth
have been used up
and the problem of what to wear can only be resolved
by donning serpent skins.

 

Half-Life

The cross of cocoloba wood
left by Columbus
remains on the island
a tourist attraction
radiocarbon dating
confirms the origin
circa 1492.

Once six feet tall
only three feet remain
splinter by splinter
relics are taken
pilgrims and gawkers
whittle away
at the present
an invisible future
inevitable.

 

The Lithic Spheres of Cuba

Legendary
dense balls of stone
found deep in the rain forest
carved and polished
often judged too perfectly spherical
for creation
by human hands

one thousand years ago
primitive tools

Some are the size of a lime
others enormous and weighty
two meters across
sixteen tons
enough stone to fill all the rooms
of a modern museum
with dreams
of the hunt

moonlit
midnight

 

Havana Harbor

shape of a hand
   five fingers of sea
    reaching inland

In the time of the pirates and treasure fleets
boats dragged a wooden chain across the wrist of the harbor
each evening

shape of a bracelet
   or shackles
    or both

The pirates came anyway
nocturnal church bells proclaiming
flames of arrival

the wooden chain burned
   along with the wooden docks
    wooden city

Only the bells seemed invincible
speaking their own
secret language

liquid music emerging
   from metal
   molten…

 

The Hot Corner

It's a certain simmering spot
in a certain sultry park
in torrid Havana

smoldering men gather
each morning to argue
late into the night

other topics forbidden
they choose sides
exploding

wild scorching gestures
voices inflamed
steam rising

endless blazes
about baseball
and teams