like the Vírgen 
de la Caridad in El Cobre, 
its mines buried in the cliff, 
streets strung with bells 
like the torsos of birds 
hung upside down, waiting
to startle the tourists. They 
say at night Our Lady slips 
from her altar to swim 
with the river goddess 
before returning, wet and 
gleaming. Each September 
a procession lights the way 
through the winding lanes 
of El Cobre, arms laden with 
girasoles, every face turning 
to glimpse the Madonna 
perched atop her moon and 
star. Gold robes—handspun 
by Spanish nuns—falling 
from her shoulders; at her 
breast the child who holds 
the world in his hands turn-
ing—another bell. On a
kitchen floor a priestess
shakes sixteen cowries from 
her pouch, records the way 
they fall—mouth up, mouth 
down—to her mat, each 
impenitent slit a remembering, 
an invocation, an invitation 
to know herself both as answer 
and question. Your own hands 
folded, white-gloved in your 
lap, neither object nor spirit—
a paper crane about to dive, 
about to rise from the deep. 
Your bangled wrists chiming
like the river. Your lips,
dusted with holy water, aching
to speak some truth. Each turn 
of your tongue a siren, a gong.
An incantation calling you to dive 
deeper. Open. Leave nothing 
but the sound of yourself ringing.

~

My Mother in Havana is available for preorder