I read Genesis’s poem about the power of the brain and thought about my family’s tradition of passing down stories from Cuba. This is a poem based on remembering those stories.
I remembered something that never happened
it was both of them, the only ones left,
and they were riding low and easy
on roads built by their father.
The top down, the smell of the ocean,
the gun in the glove box.
Beads of sweat running down their temples,
as they caught each other’s eyes and smiled.
Everything would be okay or
over or,
okay.
I remember something that did happen
something about a door floating on a river
over houses with families inside.
Or was it a piano bench?
And the girl who was tied to the top with a rope
Floating.
Surviving.
Their only hope at their story being told,
while they clutched each other in the blue
En Cuba, había alguien con quien tomar café a cualquier hora.
Alguien conocido.
And she did.