Camagüey, Cuba

Legends gathered by rain, collected in tinajones, white lake reflections, plains and mangroves. That rooster of Morãn, el guapo! Antonio, toss her, toss her in the air and catch her, not the first girl to trust you, yet the last. Seafarers, rebels, men who roam, all the silver coins of love. Abuelo, sing your death's song, its notes the breeze on a nape, its tale of lost things.

What I Know of Sugarcane

The stalk, made of segments called joints, each joint
            a node and an internode;
here leaf attaches to stalk,
            here, find buds, find root primordia.
Despedida de los Macheteros! O national pride.
            O solidarity. Here, a leaf scar
discovered when a leaf drops.
            Farewell machete wielders: 44,000 men
in rubber boots, straw hats, gloves.
            Buds: miniature stalks with miniature leaves.
Cuidado macheteros, struck stems spray hot syrup
            on the skin. One bud presents
on each node; one side of the stalk
            to the other. Men side by side between
dense blades. Loose rows of primordia exhibit
            dark centers, caps, light halos.
Here, macheteros bear stems on their backs.

Spanish

Speak its measured notes, recall the year long in paper, the cargo ship's scent, a single rolling wave, the sailors-- tick them off your fingers, melodious. Listen, you can not even name his brothers, and abuela's becomes a hymn, Mercedes, Mercedes, Mercedes, a song to weed the garden by, Mercedes-- this is how we lose the language, how we lose ourselves to myth, to legend, and how you find me, with regrets only.