Paula Camacho


Hecho en Cuba, my brother
rubs the cigar like a talisman.
Time and wisdom renew
his memory as he lights it.
I was there at the revolution,
he repeats like a favorite song.
He brings his sisters revolution
bracelets, a new flag, lost now
in the vault of teenage angst
with our movie star pictures,
our poodle skirts left behind.
What did we know then about
the desires of suppressed people?
Or the man who would seize
his country and turn it
into a landmine near us?
A Cuban daughter-in-law
takes our son to Cuba.
Their pictures and voices speak
of a new poverty, Cuba libre only a drink.
Freedom elusive as cigar smoke
encircling a brother’s head.  

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