Three Poems

Adrian Castro

Domino Park Ekphrastic, Little Havana, FL

To open with capicúa

open the matinee

the open ended doble filo

keeping yr secrets up yr sleeve

a Cuban kung-fu kid

with double-edged dagger

smooth as tabaco smoke circling

the humid air

The war was not won in 1959

not won at the Bay of Pigs

Here below the cannons of coño

below the shade of jagüey

every tile is king

Amidst memories on replay

memories of first kisses

of afternoon strolls down prados of gardenias

of the love that comes

of the love that goes

Here is where the war was won—

down the street from Café Nostalgia

(now long closed)

the story is told between sound & scents

Memory lies between

     rhythm

Heat speaking Spanish

Sweat cooling fantasies of what

could’ve been

ante exilio

ante migration

the love that comes

the love that goes

Congas kum-a-kin-kin down

Calle Ocho

Trumpets, guiro, maracas provide

steady chatter

Cafecito, pan con timba served through

ventanitas like a mother’s welcome home

as pedestrians huddle to double-check

what country they in

Here is where the war was won—

amidst galleries of Modernists

grandchildren of Wilfredo Lam & Amelia Peláez

Cundo Bermudez, Portocarrero, Carlos Alfonzo,

Jose Bedia, Carlos Luna—

memory lies between

     color

As light in Little Havana burns orange

old folks stir the dominoes

“dale agua al dominó”, they say

An ajiaco of history on display

the last game of this matinee

Chicho El Cojo opens con capicúa

an obtuse comment on the hand he’s chosen

his memory still sharp as the night his leg was badly beaten

He proclaims through his gold teeth,

“Tranquilidad viene de tranca!”

as he slams down his ivory

ficha

y tranca el juego!

the last statement locking the game loud & lauding

like a rooster’s first call, “Aquí

el gallo que más mea

soy yo!”

Misa Caribeña (II)

Hidden among almendras,

caimito, the scent of campanas, jasmín

The procession begins trumpeted like

in a Spanish matador’s dream of glory

The sting of salt ripples on skin as if history

was kissed

pooling the naked voyage

the raucous memory begun by rickety boats

(Spanish sailors, thieves, rancid with

salted meat)

History with all its difficulties

(who tells it who

 speaks for the unheard)

Heat rises like a battery of brass horns

             (an orchestra is led by the voiceless)

             The retelling—

             in Miami

there is also white, deep red then

             black cloth

strewn as if sacrifices were dropped at the crossroads

             when you knock there is no answer

What to do/who to call

if there is no one home—

The recipe:

now a symbol for the thing

they can be authentic anything—

                                 The non-dual caimito leaf

                                 green above gold below

                                 like the alchemical altruism

                                 on earth as in heaven

                                 Only now we paint with hand gestures

                                 in naked space

                                 Symbols born from word

                                 The thought like water

*

En la misa what else is there to remind the dead—

there are flowers, pools of water,

perfume

archetypal pictures

as if the living must swim

to forget their body

But el Viejo now is ash in a pearl vase

they asked if a prayer was in order

                              —How can you hold a lifetime

                                                                                         with folded hands?

The voyage begun on a cargo ship

Havana to Miami then

     New York by train

to begin anew

forgetting family, children, barrio

freedom is often jagged

                                                      —when you find new love

                                                       another city far from heat & humidity

                                                       retell the story maybe

                                                       another do-over who’s

                                                       to know—

He had gaping memories in his last few years

The moment all there was

when speech was a maw or toothless

grin

contagious at times

                                                       In my prayer I include:

                                                       When the salt has been burned from skin

                                                       will you remember to look at the light

                                                       (nothing else to see but the looker

                                                                   clear & radiant)

La Pura does not understand this

she is also bereft of the past

The moment is all there is

                   She hums 1940s boleros

                   Bola de Nieve, bereft of love, only

                                 lullabies to my daughter remain

                                 sometimes she does this with a smile

*

This is goodbye

Welcome home

I learned to retell the symbols—

                                                        Clearly life begins in water

                                                       Pools are the unconscious

                                                       Flames the dawn of insight

                                                       White scrim the space of wisdom

                                                       Black cloth for the weary traveler

                                     who must sit on the sand among

                         residue from the clash of bones

               the orchestra of water playing our song

    until fearless we wash countless times

the residue from past lives

                                 this life

                                             until fearless & weary we lift the veil

This is where we begin—

you accepted I

accepted

Let us hear the orchestra play the song for the voiceless

I will thrill in who you’re becoming

*

There is no secret:

we are children of death

even when impermanence will victimize us

our history bundled on a raucous ship

fearless we lift the veil

  because there is

               music

because

there is memory

rickety in its raucous speech

Misa because there is ocean

Misa because there is sand

residue of bone upon bone of who came

before

because we mix, we survive, reborn

Misa because between our breaths

we love we are free

The battery of brass bellows

                                             the story

Misa caribeña

Suave Like the Unspoken Tumbao

after Alfredo Triff’s “Baile del Suavito”

In the straits between here & there

not quite Nueva York y La Habana

not quite Paris or the Parthenon

not even Miami with her arms open “suavito”

You with generous long fingers pluck

the guts of nostalgia

the quest for beauty

(the dialogue with everyone)

Daniel Ponce’s brown melao drips on conga skins

Sammy Figueroa’s raspy guiro imitating

the conversation of late night Orquesta Aragón

post many bottles of rum

The upright bass walking next to you like

your childhood best friend

the way a philosopher dialogues with his stone

Ponce is now in the bardo between the thunder of congas

& the chaos of guapería

Sammy is here

Berti is here too

Your violin is the bridge between body & duende

Everywhere there is memory

of the light that comes from music