Cayo Coco
When the cancer gnaws at his bones
like a crazed wolf
and the angry moon scorches his eyes
he dreams himself back in Cayo Coco again.
His homeland...
that golden wing dangling
from Cuba's broken spine.
He finds god in the sharp rising mountains,
the gray hazed tobacco-filled clouds,
the thrashing bonito.
He finds god
in the trampled ground
and crumbling haciendas.
Juan and Diego, old childhood friends
lash him to the tallest Palm,
its leaves quivering with excitement
over being the first Cuban cross ever.
His penance.
His gateway through hell.
His reason for coming.
He visto cielo--I have seen heaven,
he screams in his sleep.
His words zing back and forth
in this time travel progression
through spirit.
His fat caretaker,
tummy crammed with tamales and black beans,
lumbers to his bed to poke him.
Crazy old coot, she mutters.
Doesn't notice the blood on his palms,
his feet, can't see the halo
or the Cuban birds who have followed
to guide him away from the wolves
and the moon and this soiled cot,
guarded by a woman who only
cares what her next meal will be.
She settles back in her chair,
snores her own way to the El Carlos Restaurant.
el restaurante de lo mejor en Miami, she sighs.
Drool runs onto her heaving bosom.
A burst of light from the cot never wakes her.
Pris Campbell
©2006
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