i.
Bloodletting is an art. The scalpel,
the butcher’s knife, the leech, the tick feasting
on the tender, fragrant skin behind your knees,
under your arms, the folds of your lips. The crucible
and its nails and the sins
we die for, the latest technology of pulleys and row after row
of hooves, their bodies’ exsanguination, a mass exodus
of weeping red rivulets turned into rivers. This is no lament
of a vegan: I had chicken for dinner three nights in a row.
No blood on my plate or hands, not after washing
so thoroughly. I am simply looking at the stump on a chicken
where a head used to be
and deciding to see tenderness.
ii.
Four major hurricanes struck Cuba this year.
Hurricane Rafael drained the power
across the country. The sea threatening
to envelope the malecón and dance
among the houses, trees spooned out of the earth,
roots to tip as if they were saplings, wind rattling windows,
creaking bones, ripping skin. Before Rafael, I thought — I have
never felt a breeze so gentle as this.
Not nestled on a wraparound porch in the Adirondacks, not
among rows of tomatoes, marigolds, and basil
in Philadelphia’s late September heat, not in front
of my father’s grave asking for a sign. I could have sat for hours
under the rasp of moon, sipping a sea breeze so delicate
I could have believed
I’d faded away.
iii.
Disaster. Disaster. Disaster. Natural disaster.
These things occur naturally. It should not be of concern.
That is just a hungry child|mother|father|family. A child has gone hungry
before. A family is promised to go hungry
again. It cannot be avoided,
this wringing of the wrists, the smoke seeping down
the skyline, the lack of generators,
refrigerators, bread, coffee, butter. What did you expect?
The children are still hungry.
ii.
In the west, up the hills, is Soroa. Tropical rains
and waterfalls and downed power lines through gardens,
roofs torn from the bones of homes, decaying coffee plantations
that TripAdvisor will tell you to admire. Admire the death,
where they penned people like cattle. Where the Spanish got rich
over the stooping of Black backs. There is so much beauty
here. This is a place of deep winding hills that swallowed
runners and hid them behind teeth of deep jungle. Gifting the language
of dormidera, mimosa pudica, a small, creeping plant
with delicate frond-like leaves that clasp and turn inward
at a touch. A language of flight, of the nascent, of those trying to scream
I have been through here. Dormidera,
para calmar los dolores.
To ease the pain. To lead you away.
i.
My sister swears I witnessed the beheading of a chicken
when we were small. The knife, the hatchet, the cleaver
slicing through feather, skin, cartilage,
bone. In this implantation there is thick blood
so red it sings to black, so viscous it could be shaped
in the hands like clay. It was done with a laugh.
From the back of the throat to the mouth of the wolf,
feathers poking out from between teeth. I eat
the chicken from the bone, pulling, sucking,
savoring. I think, now, death begets life
if you time it right. These memories —
they are fickle things. I am choosing to see beauty
in forgetting. I am still washing
my hands, I am washing my hands still,
I am digging beneath the nail and breaking skin.
ii.
Eloisa has a farm in Soroa, named for a flower
that heals, knits skin together, urges growth. A name
to taste with the tip of your tongue: calendula.
Three days without electricity, plants turned their faces
to the east after listening to Rafael’s winds, and I sit
in her kitchen and am fed. I am fed and fed and fed.
I watch her hands mix pots of rice and beans, set coffee
to brew, as my own break banana skins, bring glasses
of starfruit juice to my lips. There are spoonfuls of yucca
and avocado, salad, persimmon, roasted chicken and grease tipped fingers
passing bowls and laughter from person to person.
Forks scrape plates, my heart beats
inside her table.
i.
My mom taught me, in Italian to wish luck
you say, “In bocca al lupo” the person needing
replies, “Crepi.”
In the mouth of the wolf.
May the wolf die.
ii.
Palm outstretched with a fruit in the middle, whispering try this
has always meant I love you. I have known her hands
and what they grow and the spices
they reach for when babies are sick. We have been here before.
These currents have pulled us all along. When Eloisa says to think of
the caterpillar, I do. Como a trabajado, cuánto comió,
los pasos de su camino. How lucky are we to have food
and water running down the mountain. The winds
have made space for the trees to bare fruit, seeds
have been sent to rest in new soil. Next season will be abundant,
can’t you feel the juices running down your chin already?
This is what it is to be blessed with water —
you must drink.
