Poem for the first 2 weeks

After the night I spill purple ink on Grandma Mimi’s bedspread and remember that she is sleeping in her grandson’s room, I know I will remember my first days in Habana like this:

(dedicated to January 6-18)

I.

Dust and fumes rolling off the corners of my eyes,

packed in dead skin,

on the tip of my pointer finger.

Paint the color of thin faded tee shirts,

the ones I like to wear,

flaking off square edificios.

Blunt windows gaping dark and cool.

The old men leaning there,

squinting and unsmiling.

Me afraid to take photos,

to show any disrespect-

With my shiny digital camera

I can’t even pretend to be an artist

and not a voyeur.

Street smart dogs

(those flaquitos),

lazy mosquitoes-

Their borrowed blood between my clapped hands.

Purple ink stains

I scrub off satiny blankets sacrificed by Mimi.

And Me the purple ink stain

the men make sure I notice

(¡ssss! ¡sssss!)

they notice.

The women pretend not to

notice,

the children-

Truly indifferent.

Abuelas at the paradas don’t care about this extranjera.

Have more important things on their minds

or more like behind their eyes.

(24 pesos cubanos only equal 1 CUC.

Hija only earns 15 CUC a month).

Their wrinkles look a lot like the trees on Paseo,

which look a lot like hands

or bench pressing arms

veins popped out,

thick with hairs.

But on the old ladies,

perfectly arreglados

beneath scarves or headbands.

II.

Ciudad Deportiva on Calle Primelles in Cerro

is wide burnt fields and fences

with holes large enough to sneak peeks for free:

The sharp-looking players

in their blue and red uniforms,

shouting in round-nasal Spanish,

roaring off on motos.

Wirey boys in caps with sticks

and bottle caps,

hitting singles into the streets on purpose.

Ruins of sidewalks,

and men who don’t harass me on the guaguas.

Who give up their seats for older men with rusty muscles

and women with round bellies,

or round niños.

III.

How the streets are the dogs,

are the boys,

are behind the eyes of the old ladies,

are the thick arms.

How everyone gathers by the ocean to be romantic.

How Junior told me not to make a generalization.

How maybe I am not a purple stain but only a broken pen.

IV.

Ornate balcony grillwork,

like 1959’s old promises.

Kaleidoscopes of drying wash

splayed over clotheslines,

like the 90s. Like what really happened.

TV channels that show stories on animals and artists,

broadcast movies in all languages with subtitles.

Backstreet Boys music videos as though they’re still the latest hot thing,

marshmallow butt jeans even.

¡Que horror!

The green and the brown and the piel at the fería

even smells like cured cow skin

(The olor of dog shit,

the olor of tired

the olor of tostones).

How gorditas with curly hair are not feas

on this TV.

V.

But also,

how men clustered on corners see my white skin,

call me muñeca.

Me gusta,

they say

and I pretend not to notice them noticing

me

not even look at them.

Want to hiss back.

Maybe that would be more like brave,

and less like these first two weeks

I’ve been coaxing my shadow to be my friend.

Lost boy in a land

where the people grow up and the buildings fall down.

Despite the murals “¡Venceremos!”

La lucha.

But that one little boy holds a torn black nylon on a string

and the wind tells him it’s a kite.

So he is the purple and the blue

and my hands wear him for now,

because my blue pen broke

and my new purse is made of purple skin.