by TS Hidalgo

Artwork by Autumn Griego

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At the Malecón it is dawn all day,

or that’s how I remember that time,

the beach of that summer.

Glasnost far from where I lived,

calypso in front of where I dwelled

(2,000 miles to the southeast,

beyond where earthquakes come from):

delirious stamp exchange

behind toxic structure in opaque:

money lenders definitively beyond the temple.

Factories,

like ants, like gourmets,

detest ropa vieja*:

brothels and troubadours

five minutes from the Caribbean,

which is not the heart of the Caribbean:

Magritte said it already, This is not a pipe,

it’s the drawing of a pipe,

and I can accept that the simile allows for cracks.

Even there the cookies have letters written on them (some).

 

*Trans. Cuban stewed beef dish.