A Woman Waits at The Transit Home for Cuban Refugees
Sailing. Sailing. Plucked out for what?
Here, the same sun shines.
The same falling mangoes, beat of guitars.
My man still nightly drums his love.
The boat was more than a vehicle.
It was a place to stay suspended.
But it has docked me on another island.
Only a ceasing of rocking.
Here the sky over the fence is just a blue shade lighter.
The words are no different.
Chickens shitting at breakfast,
lonely stars corral over lime green walls.
Oh Cuba, terrible mother,
who visits me hungry in night,
I am ready to feed you my dreams.
You will still be chewing and spitting out seeds
when I step outside this fence tomorrow.
Then will my face change?
And who will give me a mirror?
copyright © 1998 Donna Decker