even though Rosa healed his flesh
so long ago.
She did not know
how to heal
his soul.
Lieutenant Death
Strangler fig, candle tree, dragon’s blood.
The names of forest plants lead me
toward Rosa the Witch.
I can never let anyone learn my real name,
or there will be rebel vengeance, after I kill her.
She is a madwoman—just yesterday, I heard
that she cleaned and bandaged the wounds
of forty Spanish soldiers,
and that Gómez the Fox let them all go,
seizing only their horses, saddles, and weapons,
leaving them enough food to survive.
No wonder so many young Spanish boys
are switching sides, joining the rebels,
becoming Cubans.
She must be stopped.
It makes no sense, healing her enemies
so they will turn into friends.
Rosa
When I travel
between two hospitals,
I listen to trees that speak
with the movement of leaves.
The horse I ride
sings to me
by twitching his ears,
telling me how much
he hates
the flames of war.
I stroke his mane
to let him know
that I will keep him safe.
I hope it is true….
Lieutenant Death
I camp beneath
a shelf of rock,
almost a cave,
I must be close….
I crush a flower bud,
popping it
to squirt the juice
that would have turned
into a blossom
with nectar
for honeybees.
Silvia
How long have Rosa and I roamed
these green, musical hills?
Each step my little mountain pony takes
has a rhythm, the music of movement,
a way to make the most of every chance
to heal a wound, cure a fever, save a life….
We ride through dark night,
surrounded by the beauty of owl songs,
tree frogs, cicada melodies,
the whoosh of bat wings
and leaves in a breeze,
all of it teaching me
how to sing without being discovered
by soldiers who would find us and kill us
if my song turned into words….
Rosa
The scars of fear burn so intensely
that I no longer ride my horse
with a metal bit in his soft, sensitive mouth.
I do not use a bridle of rope
or a saddle of leather
or spurs of sharp metal.
I’ve learned how to guide the smooth gait
of my Paso Fino mountain horse
by shifting my weight and my gaze
ever so slightly,
just enough to tell him
where I want to go.
I’ve learned how to choose a direction
with my knees, and my hands,
and my hopes….
Lieutenant Death
I wear a red tassel on my hat
to protect me against Rosa’s evil eye.
The caves are endless.
If I never find Rosa,
will the cave serpents
find me?
Breathless, I race
back out, into sunlight,
where small blue lizards
and huge green iguanas
bob their heads
as if they are mocking me
with wicked, silent laughter….
Has the witch cursed me?
Am I mad to think of such things
when I should be hunting, tracking,
hard at work?
Silvia
Before the war, a funeral meant bells,
trumpets, drums,
white flowers, and black horses
wearing black tassels.
Now we just kneel, then rise to our feet,
wondering why there are no priests
out here in the forest…
no tombstones or gravediggers with shovels,
just children with machetes tied to poles
for digging, and hardly any weeping
or singing, or flowers….
I wonder what the king of Spain
would think if he could see us.
He’s just a boy, around my age.
I’ve seen his picture, with sad eyes
and no smile—does he understand anything
about this war?
Lieutenant Death
I march beside an army of land crabs,
their orange claws clacking like drums.
Crocodiles leap from the swamps,
while tree rats stare down at them, haunted.
Green parrots swoop
above the swollen trunks
of potbellied palm trees.
Vultures nest in tunnels of mud.
A hummingbird hovers beside my ear.
Pink flamingos flock past me, cackling.
At night, a bat sips nectar
from white flowers
the size of my fist.
Fever seizes my mind.
Panic, anger, then fear again…
So many years in this jungle,
and now, here I am,
alone…lost…alone….
José
We no longer have enough food
for so many patients.
Silvia and I go out to gather
wild yams and honey.
The child tells me her grandmother
showed her how to cure sadness
by sucking the juice of an orange,
while standing on a beach.
Toss the peels onto a wave.
Watch the sadness float away.
Rosa
One night, a hole appears in the thatch
of our biggest hospital’s roof.
A woman’s face.
A child.
The boy descends
as if floating.
He is sick. Heal him,
his mother pleads.
I look around, and realize
that she came through the roof
because the door was too crowded
with families weeping, rebels moaning,
women begging….
This war is a serpent,
growing, stretching….
Silvia
In wild swamps,
I clean and bandage
the gunshot wounds
of Spanish soldiers.
The youngest are children,
boys of eleven, twelve, thirteen….
Those who survive thank me
with words and smiles,
even when the only medicines I have
are bits of lemon juice and ash.
Silvia
Sometimes we are so hungry
that we sing about making an ajiaco stew,
the kind where a kettle is filled with all sorts
of meats and vegetables.
It takes many cooks to make an ajiaco.
Each person brings only one slice of meat
or one potato, one malanga tuber or onion,
or salt from the sea.
When the stew is ready, everyone dances.
At the beach, kickfighting swimmers show off
the methods they’ve learned
for battling sharks.
Even though my ajiaco is an imaginary one,
I end up feeling that
something special has happened.
I fall asleep dreaming of music and friends,
not food.
I fall asleep with my whole family
all a
round me, still alive….
Captain-General Valeriano Weyler y Nicolau,
Marquis of Tenerife, Empire of Spain
In a palace in Havana,
I practice the art of the lance game,
riding a wooden horse around and around
on a carousel pushed by a slave.
Each time I complete the circle,
I stab my narrow sword
through a wooden ring.
When this war is over
and I have won,
I will buy one of those fancy
new mechanical carousels
with many painted horses
and a golden ring.
Silvia
Today the most amazing thing happened!
A man came from far away, to present the Fox
with a jeweled ceremonial sword
made by Tiffany,
someone very famous in New York,
the city where this visitor works
for a newspaper called the Journal,
a foreign name I can never
hope to pronounce.
When I asked Rosa why a newspaper
would care so much about our island,
I found her answer troubling.
She said tales of suffering sell newspapers
that make readers feel safe,
because they are so far away
from the horror….
Silvia
More and more young people come to join us.
El Grillo, the Cricket, is small, dark, and lively.
His nickname is earned by chattering.
He is only eleven, but his job is important.
He helps the Spanish deserter
who cooks for the Fox.
How odd it must feel to work as a kitchen boy
in this forest, without a real kitchen,
especially on days when there is no food.
Some of the officers are only fourteen.
The Flag Captain is a girl my age.
When Spanish soldiers see her, they hesitate.
They are not accustomed
to shooting girls.
The Sisters of Shade weave hats
to bring relief from the sun.
They show me how to sew
a padded amulet of cloth
to wear over my heart, as protection
against bullets.
José
Each rebel has a nickname.
El Indio Bravo wears his black hair long,
like his native Taíno Indian ancestors.
Los Inglesitos have light hair,
so we call them the Englishmen,
even though they speak only Spanish.
Los Pacíficos are the Peaceful Ones.
They grow crops to feed their little ones,
instead of choosing sides in the war.
Nicknames of all sorts are worn proudly,
except for majá, which means cave boa,
like the snake that hides in darkness,
waiting for bats—
majá is the name we call cowards
who choose to ride the slowest horses
into battle, so they can be the first
to turn back, and survive
if a retreat is called.
José
War is like the game
of gallina ciega, blind hen.
We hide. They seek.
One shot from my old carbine,
and Spanish troops return fire
with thousands of Mauser balls,
cannons, explosives….
So I hide, shoot, and wait
for them to waste ammunition,
firing back at me,
into the forest,
hitting nothing but trees.
Silvia
The wounded are sacred.
We never leave them.
When everyone else
flees the battlefield,
nurses are the ones
who rush to carry
the wounded
to Rosa.
I am learning
how to stay
far too busy
for worries
about dying.
Rosa
Today the children saved us,
our patients, the nurses, my husband, my life.
Spanish soldiers came marching
to the music of trumpets and drums.
Silvia, Cricket, and the Sisters of Shade
ran and grabbed beehives.
I was so weary, I was dreaming.
I had no idea that we were in danger.
I slept through the drumming and buzzing,
cries of fear, shouts of surprise….
Our hives fooled the troops
into fleeing—they do not know
that these bees are stingless.
Now, we feast on wild honey.
We light a candle, and take turns reading
the Simple Verses of José Martí.
My favorite is the one about knowing
the strange names of flowers.
José
How strange and sudden
are changes in wartime.
Soon after the victory of beehives,
we suffer a dreadful defeat.
A spy has betrayed the Lion,
revealing his position.
He was ambushed.
He is gone.
The Fox is alone now, only one leader…
so many dreams.
Silvia
Our Lion is dead,
but Weyler the Butcher
has been sent back to Spain,
humiliated by his failure
to defeat mambí rebels….
How can I decide
or celebrate an end to Cuba’s
reconcentration?
The camp where my family starved,
and shivered with fever—
the camp is open now—
the guards are gone.
Survivors can leave
if they have
the strength.
The Surrender Tree
1898–99
Rosa
No one understands
why a U.S.battleship
has been anchored
in Havana Harbor.
We do not know
how the ship explodes,
killing hundreds of American sailors,
who must have felt so safe
aboard their sturdy warship.
Who can be blamed
for the bomb?
José
After the U.S.battleship Maine
explodes in Havana Harbor,
Spain’s soldiers in Cuba
are no longer paid or fed
by their own country’s
troubled army.
Deserters flee into the mountains
by the hundreds, then by thousands,
coming to us for mercy,
begging to switch sides
and become mambí rebels
because we know how to find
roots and wildflowers
to keep ourselves alive.
How swiftly old enemies
turn into friends.
Silvia
Foreign newspaper reporters
flood our valleys and mountains,
journeying to Cuba
from distant places
with strange names.
Some come with cameras,
others with sketchbooks.
Rosa poses calmly.
I smile.
Cricket laughs,
because even though some of the artists
are amazing,
others are sneaky—
one reporter sketches the fat cook,
making him look thin and handsome,
to flatter him
before begging for extra food.
Only José refuses to be photographed
or sketched—he cl
aims he once
knew a man
who posed, and was harmed by the camera,
and has never been the same.
I do not believe that José is afraid.
He just wants to keep our faces
and our hospitals
safely hidden.
Rosa
The countryside is a ghostland
of burned farms and the ashes of houses,
skeletal trees blackened by smoke.
Rumors blossom
and wither like orchids.
Some say the U.S.Cavalry
is here to help us.
Others insist that the Americans
must have bombed
their own warship
just to have an excuse
for fighting in Cuba
so close to the end
of our three wars
for independence.
Silvia
The U.S. Cavalrymen
call themselves Rough Riders
but José calls them Weary Walkers
because fever makes them so weak
that they have to dismount
and lead their horses
through Cuba’s swamps.
Some of the northerners
who come to our hospitals with fever
are dark men who laugh
when they call themselves
the Immunes.
They say they were promised
that if they volunteered to fight in Cuba
they would remain healthy—
apparently, in northern lands,
dark people were thought to be safe
from tropical fevers
until Cuba started teaching
northern doctors
the truth.
Rosa
I smile as Silvia tries to learn English
from our new patients, some light, some dark,