Where the Bus Left Us
  by John Brandi

This is where the tide rolled up its sleeves,
where the old painter added wings to weightlifters
and made nipples rise under women’s lace.

This is where the gun ships put in
and darkness opened its eye with fire, where Batista
followed Machado, and the CIA planned its blood wedding
for the unshaven men in dull green.

This is where confetti bombed the windscreen
of Mario’s pink Edsel, and the bride wore red
under a flame tree. This is the little guy in the big drink,
drums thumping, chains rattling.

This is the side of life that bends your elbows to the sun
from the lap of the holy mother, whose black seashells
and gourd rasp shatter the blockade with song.

This is where cold rain brightens our backs
as the patron saints dance under children waving blue flags
on yellow verandas to the armada of black suits
ninety miles across the waves.

(Paseo de Martí, Havana)