MIDNIGHT PASSES OVER THE PLAZA
DE LA REVOLUCION

The charcoaled countenance of Ché-sus
Weeps tears that fill the buckets
Hoisted to believers in upper rooms
Where nourishing waters no longer flow.
Somewhere in the city,
The patriarch,
Deep into his dark night
Searches for someone to cross
His people over into a new Canaan.
Havana's dawn
Warms the marble back
Of Batista's Christ
Extending his hand
In benediction
Over blessed tourists
Falling along the trail
Of Saint Ernest
Having drunk the rum
Pouring from his side.
In those early hours
A cock crows a song
Of contradiction and struggle.

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