Para los balseros
y los que se quedaron
Cuba es tu corazón, Cuba es mi cielo,
Cuba en tu libro mi palabra sea.
Cuba is your heart, Cuba is my sky,
In your book, Cuba is my word.
—José Martí,
from “Cuba nos une” (“Cuba Unites Us”)
Island of Cuba
Summer 1991
Imagine a year when food suddenly vanishes.
It’s the beginning of a decade known as
el período especial en tiempos de paz—
the special period in times of peace.
Hunger drives tens of thousands
into the ferocious blue sea
on fragile rafts.
Hunger teaches others how to cling to red soil
and green fields, reinventing ancient ways
to survive.
Hunger
helps lonely beings
sing.
Emptiness
Liana, age 14
Haunted belly,
the memory of food
so vivid.
We’re ordered to call this plunging shock of hunger
el período especial en tiempos de paz—
the special period in times of peace—
meaning warlike sacrifices
with hope as our only defensive weapon.
I obey the government’s instructions
for referring to an alarming absence of food,
even though official words always
seem tricky.
Special, I repeat,
meaning ravenous.
Peace, I recite,
imagining meat.
Global Games
Liana
In just a few weeks, athletes from many nations
will arrive on our isolated isla, to compete
in los Juegos panamericanos.
I close my eyes and picture airplanes landing,
foreigners emerging to play fútbol, béisbol,
and básquetbol tournaments, all the world
watching the Pan American Games on televisions
in well-fed lands
far away.
I imagine the kitchens in those homes.
Full refrigerators and a fragrance of cooking…
Our quiet town is remote, so the global games
in Havana
might pass
without any travelers
ever finding us.
No witnesses.
We are like an outer isle
off the shore of another island.
Forgotten.
But what if a few sports fans do show up?
We’re not allowed to talk to foreigners,
but I, for one, would love to break official rules
just to see how fairness feels.
Curiosity
is stronger
than fear.
Wondering about the World
Liana
How do foreigners think,
what do they believe,
what do they
eat?
What if they see
how emaciated we are?
Won’t they fly home
and come back with food
to share?
The History of Our Hunger
Liana
According to legends told by old folks,
this is how emptiness swallowed us:
Nearly thirty years ago, the US refused
to trade with Cuba, so we fell into the bear hug
of Russia, until a few months ago, when suddenly
the Soviet Union began to crumble like a sandcastle,
leaving
us
abandoned.
No more subsidies, bribes, or rewards.
Now, with tourists from all over the world
due to arrive for global games, our food rations
are slashed to create an illusion of plenty
at hotel banquets, in restaurants that we
are not permitted
to enter.
My parents quietly call it tourist apartheid.
Everything for outsiders.
Nothing for islanders.
Sharing Sugar
Liana
A sandy brown dog approaches me.
He’s lean and muscular, with sensitive eyes
and an attentive nose, sniffing hot air
to inhale
my closeness.
I reach and touch, needing friendship.
All I have to offer is a sip of sweetened water,
because sugar is the only food in our kitchen
abundant enough to share.
are so stingy that we run out halfway through
each month, forcing us to starve
or scrounge
like beggars.
I feel so weak
from this diet of azúcar
that my body seems to float,
while my mind explores.…
Plans and Fantasies
Liana
Three simple decisions are needed today.
Uno:
Can I keep the wild-looking dog?
Dos:
Am I brave enough to skip la escuela al campo—
school in the countryside—
a summer of forced so-called-volunteer farm labor
that always feels like teenage slavery?
Anyone who doesn’t show up
won’t stand a chance of getting into college
or being assigned to a tolerable job, because
the government controls us so completely
that even our careers are assigned.
Tres:
What can I find to gobble
for breakfast, lunch, or supper?
There’s no point wishing for all three meals.
Eating until I’m full even once per day would be
sheer
ecstasy!
At Night, the Mind Feels Nourished
Liana
The first and second decisions are urgent:
I’ll have to find a way to feed the lean dog,
and to stay sane I need to dodge the hideous
work camps, even though my family might suffer
the revenge of a judgmental government,
and we could be shunned by neighbors
if we’re labeled
as traitors.
So I’ll make myself seem lazy, but at least
there will be a chance to conserve my energy,
so that I can spend every minute searching for food.
Together, the dog and I fall asleep
dreaming of protein.
Milk.
Meat.
Eggs.
Treasures I have not tasted
all year.
Monstrous
Liana
Which is worse,
starvation or prison?
Stealing food is dangerous.
Roadside bananas belong to the government.
So do lobsters in the sea, and cattle that roam
rough green pastures.
The penalty for killing a cow
is thirty years in prison.
Barriga llena, corazón contento.
Full belly, happy heart—
unless you happen to be an islander
during this special period of peaceful desperation,
when emptiness makes me feel like a beast
with a hollow belly.
No heart
at all.
Serenade
Liana
With the eager dog at my side
I roam every beach,
peering
into sand
and water
as we seek
edible creatures.
When the dog begins to sing
his voice is eerie, echoing like the howl
of a werewolf in an old movie, but livelier,
more musical,
a song of hope,
not despair.
Wild
The singing dog, age unknown
The dog is acutely aware of human hunger.
Otherwise, he might have stayed
alone in the wilderness forever,
instead of following a pungent scent-trail of time
back and forth
between lonely mountains
and forgotten towns.
He’s the only survivor from a long-lost era
when all canines chanted rhymes instead of barking.
Silent while hunting,
they yowled like four-legged poets
as soon as a meal of shellfish, lizards, or rodents
was captured
and swallowed.
Now, the dog feels like he’s made of memories
wrapped up in a nest of fur
and sound.
Plea
Liana
My name means jungle vine,
a plant that grows tangled like prayers.
Protein is my most urgent wish,
but I’ve started pleading for a guardian angel, too,
even though faith has been forbidden for so long
that if anyone
hears me
secretly
to heaven,
I’ll be treated
like an outlaw.
Response
Liana
The dog comforts me.
There’s something sacred
about his musical nature.
He sings.
I listen.
Maybe companionship
is the only answer
to all prayers.
Local Games
Liana
The singing dog helps me find
enough odd-tasting protein
to regain a bit of hope.
I never imagined that I would swallow
raw sea creatures so eagerly, but I do,
and now I feel daring, bold,
body and soul
both almost full.
In a spirit of celebration, I play
with the neighborhood’s smallest children.
Cuatro esquinas. Street baseball.
Pon. Hopscotch.
Bolas. Marbles.
Yaquis. Jacks.
El gato y el ratón. Cat and rat.
El lobo y los corderos. Wolf and lambs.
I remember all the English translations
I learned from an old dictionary
hidden at the back of my mother’s
cluttered bookshelf.
When I was little, my favorite game
was la vuelta al tronco, which I played
with my twin brothers, all three of us
spinning around a tree trunk,
then turning to twirl
the other way
until
finally
we
grew
dizzy
and
collapsed
like broken twigs.
So I try it now, with the eager dog
and a half dozen shrieking children
all tumbling over each other
in an effort
to race,
even though
there are no prizes,
just laughter.
Until this moment
the sorrow of hunger
has made me forget
that daily life can be
a twisting
spinning
whirlwind
of
sheer
joy!
The Next Morning
Liana
My parents scold me for staying home
instead of going with my brothers to la escuela
al campo, but their anger passes quickly,
and then they hug me, pretending it’s not
a burden to have one more person to feed
all summer, along with this unexpected
canine guest
my four-legged angel
a skinny, ravenous beast
of hope.
What will we eat, dog?
Have I imagined you?
Are you real?
Can hunger make a sane girl feel
crazed enough to hallucinate
an imaginary
four-legged
friend?
The Marvels of Reality
The singing dog
He knows he is real.
He exhales forcefully before each inhaled puff.
Huff! Sniff. It’s the pattern of air breathed by all
his ancestors. The fragrance of time is everywhere,
so he is selective as he chooses seconds,
minutes, hours,
centuries.…
Following airborne aromas, he leads the girl
toward her scented future,
each adventure ending with the edible prize
of something nutritious,
a discarded fish head, plump tree rat,
or jumping bullfrog.
The dog knows that trusting all these strange smells
will be his only way to feel strong enough for music.
Glimpse
Amado, age 15
I’m the only boy in this entire town
who did not go to the sugar fields
for a summer of oppressive labor.
Everyone knows it’s more mandatory
than voluntary, at least in the sense
of becoming an outcast if you refuse,
losing all privileges, forfeiting college,
losing hope for a future of education
and respect.
So I wander alone now, observing, listening,
trying to discover rare sources of food, ration lines
that lead to bread or coffee, instead of the usual
slice of aching
disappointment.
All my friends left yesterday
on flatbed army trucks, carted like cattle.
I don’t expect to see any teenagers in town,
so I’m surprised when I spot a girl I’ve noticed
many times, even though I’ve never
been brave enough to speak to her.
Close to her side, a foxlike animal
lopes casually, fearless in the presence
of hungry strangers.
Doesn’t the wild-looking dog understand
that most of us are ravenous enough
to lose our sense of guilt?
Cats have disappeared
and dogs are vanishing too,
abandoned, gone feral,
or worse—devoured, the meat
described as pork or rabbit.…
No one can afford to feed a pet.
We can barely take care of ourselves.
Some would eat this creature just to fill
the agony of a hollow belly
and vanishing conscience.
Glance
Liana
The tall boy who gazes at me
is even skinnier than the rest of us.
He’s skeletal but appealing
in a days-on-earth-are-numbered
sort of way.
He must be courageous
to skip la escuela al campo!
As soon as that admiring thought
flashes across my mind, I realize that
I’m brave too.
Sometimes it takes a clear view
of someone else
before I can see my own
unexpected self.
Mirror
Amado
The girl�
�s curious eyes make me want
to go home and look at myself
in an effort to see what she perceives:
Height.
Emaciation.
Bones barely concealed
by skin, my face the same deep brown
as this old mirror’s scratched
mahogany frame.
The girl has no way to know that I crave
so much more than food—I need freedom
to speak out, demanding my right
to reject silence.
My older brother is already in prison
for the same crime that I plan to commit—
evading the draft by staying away on the day
when I’m ordered to report for military duty.
Our grandfather fought in Bolivia,
our father in Nicaragua and Angola,
enough bloodshed to leave both of us
unwilling to join future battles.
I glare at the mirror.
Wavy patches.
Blurry streaks.
As if I’m already
fading away
in a prison cell.
What if I don’t have the courage
to keep the pact that I made with my brother,
speaking up, explaining to the government
why we need to choose peace?
But this country is not at war right now,
unless you count our constant struggle
against hunger.
Maybe I should let myself be trained to kill,
become a soldier, gun-wielding, violent,
a dangerous stranger, no longer
me.
Reflection
Liana
The dog and I crouch,
watching ourselves
in a shallow tide pool,
shimmery bronze faces
rippling as we hover
above pink anemones
and purple sea urchins.
We gobble
odd-shaped creatures
raw, then glance
at ourselves again,
the dog’s hair short and straight,
mine long, wet, and twining
in dark ringlets like tendrils or seaweed.
Our eyes resemble four sleek black planets
floating in the tide pool’s
miniature galaxy.
Do canines understand mirror images,
or can they only recognize themselves
by smell?
I’ll never know, unless I learn
the ancient language of dog songs.
After a while, we rise and climb