Your Heart, My Sky

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by Margarita Engle

the steep, brightly flowered hills of town,

  passing old houses with climbing vines

  that enclose wide-open windows and doors,

  an invitation for the sea breeze, doves,

  butterflies, wasps,

  perhaps also thieves.…

  At home in my kitchen,

  I check the refrigerator,

  finding it empty as usual.

  No electricity either.

  Just invisible

  wishes.

  Herding Teenagers

  The singing dog

  If he can somehow manage to urge them

  toward each other, then neither one will feel

  so completely alone, and his unusual instincts

  tell him that these two are so perfectly

  right for each other that if he fails

  to meet his natural goal they will wander

  like detached spirits, souls just as starved

  as bodies.…

  The last time a singing dog worked at matchmaking

  was in the human year 1519, when a violent pirate

  named Hernán Cortés had stolen a ship and anchored

  on the island’s southern shore,

  recruiting all the Spanish men

  of Trinidad de Cuba as soldiers,

  then seizing all the native Ciboney Taíno men

  as enslaved porters for an expedition

  of slaughter and conquest, across the western sea

  south of Aztlán, land of Moctezuma, ruler of Tenochtitlán.

  Only women, children, and singing dogs

  were left behind in the village of Trinidad,

  along with one guard and one prisoner,

  a pacifist called Uría, half Ciboney

  and half Canary Islander, a poetic scribe

  who loved to write

  and refused to fight.

  A singing dog led a Ciboney girl called Arima

  to the little prison, where she freed Uría,

  then helped him escape, and showed him

  how to thrive in el monte, wild mountains,

  dense jungle, her home.

  Now this new boy called Amado is peaceful like Uría,

  and the girl named Liana is brave like Arima,

  so the modern dog’s task is clear—

  just guide these two young people until

  they accept each other’s companionship.

  Some matches are simply

  meant to be.

  If you lived in another time and place,

  you might think of the singing dog as a winged thing:

  Eros.

  Cupid.

  A guardian

  who specializes

  in love.

  Admiration

  Liana

  The tall boy is calm like a palm tree

  when standing motionless,

  then fiery as a solar flare

  as he rages against poverty,

  blaming all three governments—

  Cuba for failing to plant food crops,

  the US for isolating us with a senseless

  trade embargo, and Russia for making us so

  completely dependent on handouts that when

  we’re abandoned

  we starve.

  The boy is smart

  honest

  gentle.

  It’s enough to make my heart and mind

  feel as wide and far-reaching as the sky.

  Confusion Is Another Word for Wishes

  Amado

  The girl is

  eye-light

  dream-light

  fierce-bright

  so perfectly

  furiously

  intelligent

  and yet

  she seems

  distant

  as if she

  might

  suddenly

  flee.

  Inventing a Meal

  Liana

  Why waste energy on daydreams

  when I could be foraging?

  I tell myself to think of nothing but food

  and the dog, whom I decide to call Paz,

  because he brings me such an unusual

  form of peace, the kind of tranquility

  that feels liberating, like a wild

  sigh

  of relief.

  Back at the beach the next evening,

  Paz and I conjure a supper of coiled seaweed,

  plopping it into the milky heart of a coconut

  that I salvaged

  from a towering

  palm tree.

  Just enough food

  to make me feel even more

  hollow.

  Aquatic

  Amado

  When I see the girl stirring

  something mysterious

  I’m drawn to a view of green slime,

  food suitable only for seagulls.

  Inventar. Invent.

  Resolver. Solve problems.

  No es fácil. It’s not easy.

  La lucha. The struggle.

  Without my brother’s

  poetic code words,

  where would I be?

  Determined to invent, resolve, work hard,

  and struggle, I plunge into a rocky coral pool,

  my eager fist rewarding me with a tightly clasped

  moray eel, grabbed right behind the head like a snake,

  to make the ferocious teeth

  helpless.

  Skinned eel flesh, the cracked claws of red crabs,

  smelly seaweed,

  sweet coconut milk,

  all of it boiled and swirled,

  then swallowed.…

  Such a bizarre feast,

  spontaneously created

  and recklessly shared

  with a girl who barely

  acknowledges

  that I exist.

  Why do I fool myself into imagining

  a bonfire of warm, explosive passion,

  when all she’s willing to radiate

  is this cold light

  of wave-washed

  indifference?

  The Music of Food

  Liana

  Paz sings

  while I cook with driftwood.

  The tall boy joins in, more wolf howl

  than melody.

  Horizon of waves.

  Wind on the beach.

  My own voice is silence,

  this slowly gathered

  secretive

  strength.

  We eat like ravenous beasts,

  slurping

  gurgling

  murmuring

  syllables of gratitude

  for a weird meal

  of satisfying

  scraps.

  Attraction

  Liana

  Embers flare

  within the heart’s sky

  like fireflies that blink

  as they search

  for mates.

  Natural.

  Musical.

  Rhythmic.

  The pulse in my mind wanders away

  from hunger, toward something I can barely name.

  A spark

  of wishlight

  on the dark horizon’s

  oceanic warmth.

  If only I could allow my voice to burn energy,

  admitting that I truly crave this boy’s

  smile.

  Her Eyes Are…

  Amado

  magnets, a force of gravity pulling me downward,

  an ability to draw patterns of movement along

  this earth-and-sea surface, like moon tides

  or tree roots

  sinking.

  But love

  at first, second, third,

  or ten millionth glimpse

  is mythical,

  isn’t

  it?

  Night Hunger

  Amado

  I walk home alone,

  leaving the girl and her eerie dog

&n
bsp; immersed in their private world

  of wordless

  communication.

  Apagón. Blackout.

  No power.

  No lights.

  I won’t

  be able to read or write.

  No way to watch preparations

  for the global games

  on our old black-and-white

  Russian television.

  So I go to bed early, dreaming

  of a skinny sirena, a mermaid,

  musical

  ingenious

  maybe even

  dangerous.

  Imaginary

  or real?

  In dreams

  and daydreams

  there is no difference.

  Maybe love at first sight actually does exist

  for those who are well-fed enough

  to

  sleep.

  Wide Awake

  Amado

  Picturing the girl, I can’t keep my eyes closed.

  I think of my parents in the other room,

  married for decades, affectionate, faithful.

  They mourn my decision to defy the authorities,

  even though they insist they’re supportive

  in a skeptical way.

  Now I’ll never be chosen for a good school,

  mamá warns, and I’ll always be treated

  like a dangerous criminal, papá admonishes,

  as if being the brother of a political prisoner

  weren’t already risky enough.

  Fear-stricken.

  Fright-sickened.

  Petrified by my

  damaged future.

  If I let myself absorb that parental terror

  I’ll fade away like a meteor, all my natural fire

  destroyed.

  Priorities

  Liana

  Amado is a word that means loved.

  Who would give an ordinary boy

  such an old-fashioned name?

  His mother must be one of those romantic women

  who lacks a modern imagination, she probably

  embroiders or makes lace in her spare time,

  following traditions left over from long ago.

  If Amado thinks I’ll fall for him, he’s wrong.

  He’s attractive in his own howling way

  but I don’t need a boyfriend—not now

  during this food crisis, when all I crave

  should be calories,

  although somehow

  I seem to be swallowing

  more fantasies of romance than actual food.

  If only Amado

  were not so appealing.…

  Perseverance

  The singing dog

  Nose-reach. It’s the length of a dog’s ability to sniff,

  a canine measure of inhaled distance.

  The only thing he understands is how to lead, guide,

  breathe, so he persists, following any scent that smells

  delicious, because without aromas, there can be

  no flavors. Taste has an odor, and every mouth

  needs to savor the air that surrounds

  each

  fragrant

  bite.

  His quest for food continues,

  along with the true goal: togetherness.

  Love.

  Daybreak

  Liana

  Waves, sky, birds,

  all this natural expanse of beauty

  does not seem to belong to the same world

  as starvation.

  Each gust of wind

  makes me think of breakfast

  while Paz and I scan soft sand in search

  of a freshly beached flying fish.

  Sometimes they leap so far that they land

  in this terrestrial realm, where empty air

  is the only abundant

  substitute

  for fullness.

  Breathe, listen, gaze, reach—I imitate

  every one of the dog’s optimistic actions

  as he leads me toward

  sunlit

  possibilities.

  Pessimism

  Amado

  How unnatural the dog’s eagerness seems.

  Can’t he see that we’re spending too much energy

  in our constant effort to gain scraps of nutrition?

  Selfish, greedy, suspicious,

  narrow,

  that’s how I feel,

  just as thin

  and threadlike

  as a strand

  of seaweed,

  that can vanish

  without being noticed

  by the tide.

  Jokes and riddles

  used to keep my brother cheerful.

  What are the three successes of the revolution?

  Sports, medicine, literacy.

  What are the three failures?

  Breakfast, lunch, dinner.

  By the time he went to prison

  we were already so close to starving

  that his humor grew increasingly grim.

  What do all young cubanos want to be

  when we grow up

  he would ask,

  providing the cynical answer

  himself:

  Extranjeros.

  Foreigners.

  Too Many Mirrors

  Liana

  Each time I glimpse my form

  in a watery reflection

  or a window,

  I see clothing so shabby

  that I resemble a witch in a fairy tale.

  What the mirrors don’t show

  is even worse, hidden beneath

  ragged shirts and faded shorts:

  underwear

  in shreds,

  the soft cloth

  falling apart

  in so many places

  that it shifts like clouds

  on a sky

  of bronze flesh.

  There is no way to feel comfortable, dressed

  in this restless cotton storm—but finding

  new clothes

  would be just as impossible

  as trying to buy

  beef

  or optimism.

  All I can do

  is search the beach,

  hoping to locate a few wisps

  of floating fabric that can be cut and stitched

  to create an illusion of garments.

  Each time I go home to my worried parents

  I stare into their starving eyes

  and feel

  guilty.

  Under ordinary circumstances, they would never

  allow me to ramble unsupervised

  like a ghost.

  When I talk to them, they answer, but never

  honestly, because they want to reassure me

  in a situation so desperate that the truth

  would be cruel.

  A Cautious Conversation

  Liana

  Mami asks what I do when I’m gone

  for hours on end, so I pretend

  that I run on the beach,

  training so I can try out

  for a school team

  that might lead

  to the Olympics

  or some other

  games.

  Imagínate, I say, hoping she’ll obey

  and imagine me winning races

  in some future version of this year’s

  Juegos panamericanos,

  so that I can be successful

  even without being accepted

  to medical school…

  but we both know the government

  won’t choose me for any athletic program either,

  not after I rejected my chance to demonstrate

  absolute, unquestioning

  patriotic loyalty.

  Imagínate, Mami echoes,

  just imagine how terrible it would be

  to live someplace else, in another country

  with fewer opportunities!
>
  She shouts it loudly, bellowing

  to make sure neighbors overhear her

  if they happen to be passing by on the street

  and cup one ear against our wall, trying

  to determine whether I’m really

  as notoriously lazy

  or dangerously

  traitorous

  as the local gossips

  will surely

  insist.

  Secret Police

  Amado

  State Security agents stroll along our street

  even more often than they check up

  on real criminals.

  Any home where one teenager has refused

  to show up for military service, and another evades

  summer labor

  is a place where other forbidden ideas

  might be discovered,

  so the plainclothesmen

  in their dark slacks,

  white guayabera shirts,

  and polished black leather shoes

  watch, watch, watch our house

  to see who comes in

  or goes out.

  Each time I leave to meet Liana, I flee

  through a back door, never the visible front.

  I leave my parents vulnerable, but life has already

  turned into nothing but an endless list of dangers.

  Neighborhood Spies

  Amado

  El Comité is even worse,

  a committee for defense of the revolution

  that consists of old women who pretend

  to visit, then ask to use the bathroom

  just so they can peek

  to see

  if we

  read

  banned

  foreign

  magazines

  or if we use official

  government newsletters

  disrespectfully

  as toilet paper.

  Grandparents

  Amado

  To escape from the gloom

  of my own home, I visit my abuelos

  in the next town, only thirty kilometers away

  but with so few buses running

  that I have to hitchhike, riding in a neighbor’s

  horse-drawn wagon

  that doubles as an ambulance whenever people who have cars

  can’t find fuel.

  What a shock it is to discover

  that my rugged, cigar-smoking grandma

  is almost blind

  from malnutrition.

  Instead of a Seeing Eye dog,

  she depends on a guide pony

  with a sweet expression and shaggy black mane.

  Indoors, the little pony seems enormous,

  even though outside it would be no more

 

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