In Havana, dance is the pyre
fire is the body
one two three
one
two
three

eyes flame
glow like papayas
spread open in the afternoon sun
one
two
three

hands melt air
twist it into long strands of breath
boiling in and out and up
snaking a course through tenement incarnations
along corroding balconies
their baroque pastels
now chipped and dripping with the runoff of time
clotheslines heavy with shoes and sheets
--the necessities of dance

one two three
one two three
drum fragments reach
from windowless holes across the city
grabbing hips as they pass
pulling companeros into their moment
tobacco stained hombres, spandex chicas
madres in plastic curlers dragging daiperless ninos
caught in the street cauldron
of tone, slap, bass, heel, tok
dance fuel

Rumba molting their flesh into the single
red rhythm of rooster and hen
Yoruba kindling the wide-eyed
lightening spit of Chango
blood pumping with Salsa
spiced hot enough to ignite
the ashes of this Periodo Especial
inject Fidelís sugar-spun phrase
--of rationing and dearth
of fire with no lighters, matches carefully doled--
with clave and conga

one two three
cow bells lifting feet toward the alter of lovers
flesh and fire
body and dance
Cuba

Knotted long at my nape
black silk curves
waves and rolls before my eyes
a motion of wind and circumstance
its sheer fabric dancing in deference
to Santo Havana's long burial
her soil dripping blood, white and blue
odd devotion carried across lawns of morning
mansion by mansion
framed in tree-patched sun
their rusted concrete and underwear-lined balconies
absorbing the shadows of past and present
words like Batista and Fidel absent only in sound

The easy talk of neighbors, families
of new friends, old
conceals a want dollar stores can't fill
cooking oil, soap, powdered milk
even Nike or Tommy Hilfiger canít dam the tears
only force them backwards
until veins overflow with sobs
beg strong hands
to lift rum to parted lips
swallow deep, outlawed places
break around walls
imitating the sea
in its nightly dives over the Malecon
barely a stain left on the sidewalk by morning

On this ride, I roll past those stains
another and another
including one dumped near the curbside memorial
to the USS Maine, its iron columns
emptied of their eagle by Fidelistas
eager to rid themselves of Imperialist perch
this ritual act of dethronement
adding another casualty
to the powdered bones of those service boys
who, once intact and trusting,
played decoy for eyes fixed on shore

An outlaw, I ride along that shore
George Washington in my wallet
me and the sea, both of us occasionally buried
beneath plumes of exhaust left behind
by timeless Caddieís, Chevyís, Fordís
ninety miles from the master and I fly
a raptor exposed, talons of curling cloth
two tires as wings, potted asphalt sky
taking me past all the curious, hungry winks
whistles, kisses, hisses, shouts--ooor coontray?
Fr-an-cais, Can-a-da, Sweeees--never
guessing the flag which broke
my fall from the stars

When I can, I smile, reveal my span
how it reaches like the scarf my grandmother wore
over her salty, swollen eyes at papaís funeral
its airy shade too sorrowful to mourn
and remember the language of light
beyond letters, mathematics, past physics
where the gutted halls of Alexandria beckon
something primal, like the generations of grandparents
of soil, mixed into my USA blood

Inoculated and infected
my only medicine is flight
to come and go in each revolution
pray somehow this funeral
can bury the dead
honor the living