Cuba, 1962
When the rooster jumps up on the
windowsill
and spreads his red-gold wings,
I wake, thinking it is the sun
and call Juanita, hearing her answer,
but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside,
breaking the cane off at ground level,
using only her big hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane,
until I see her, lying face-down in the
dirt.
Juanita, dead in the morning like
this.
I raise the machete--
what I take from the earth, I give back—
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon,
where I load the cane to sell in the village.
Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his
cake,
tastes something sweeter than this sugar
cane;
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more,
you can never get enough.
|
The Hitchhiker
The
Arizona wind dries out my nostrils
and the heat of the sidewalk
burns my shoes,
as a woman drives up slowly.
I get in, grinning at a face
I do not like,
but I slide my arm across the
top of the seat
and rest it lightly against her shoulder.
We turn off into the desert,
then I reach inside my pocket and touch
the switchblade.
We stop, and as she moves closer
to me, my hands ache,
but somehow, I get the blade
into her chest.
I think a song: "Everybody
needs somebody,
everybody needs somebody
to love,"
as the black numerals 35
roll out of her right eye
inside one small tear.
Laughing, I snap my fingers. Rape,
murder, I got you
in the sight of my gun.
I move off toward the street.
My feet press down in it,
familiar with the hot, soft asphalt
that caresses them.
The sun slips down into its cradle
behind the mountains
and it is hot, hotter than ever
and I like it. |