Sometimes he runs to us at night
we hold him while he weeps
ashamed to cry at his age
a young man, not a child
and yet, how could it be any other way
when he is the only one in our family
who is not free?
He is still the page at her parties
he stands behind her chair when she plays cards
he rides on the back of her carriage
on the way to the country house
or the palace of some other noblewoman
or the theater in Havana
where she tosses gold and jewels to the actors
as if they were flowers, not gemstones and pearls.
He clings to the carriage
holding a lantern all night
many nights in a row
until finally it happens
he falls asleep
the lantern drops
he falls.