Highly Commended
I find myself in a space between leaving and arriving.
My body and all its atoms followed
and I am home.
Yet a thin slice still breathes a Cuban sky.
In this cave-grey morning I’m struck
by the strangeness of it.
I still see Raul emerge from the open trapdoor,
a circus entertainer, balancing a breakfast tray,
his brightly hued parrot at his heels.
Remember the way he bartered over one potato
while the not so secret police
rode the uneven streets.
Time held to ransom in the rhythm of their lives,
waiting for Castro’s death, the U.S. election,
all bound in a collective breath.
Did the train come, did you get home safely?
After you left a woman passed by with the whole world
held in the turn of shoe and shoulder.
I’ve nearly unpacked
but some days I think I’ll never be finished.
I’m on that breeze-warm rooftop drinking rum
in the street below the languid trot of a horse
the rising thrum of drums.
Do you remember Raul shout we’re fucked!
as the results rolled voice to voice.
The key grating in the gate.
