Letters travel between
the Bronx and Havana.
We meet for the first time when you
step off the plane at La Guardia.
Meandering through the hard
city streets, we lunch
where food passes through tiny windows.
Each sandwich has its own home.
I delight in your sense of humor and Cubano accent,
laugh when you tease about my skinny ankles.
The Shortline takes us to the lake.
Surrounded by moving grasses
hugging the edges, we run
old wooden boards, jump
into the lake’s warm water.
My mouth falls open when
Havana’s lush tropical paradise greets.
Under the stars we dance
to the rhythms of Rumba and Mambo.
One million Cubanos
seek refuge in Miami.
Miguel becomes Cubanoamericano,
takes the name Michael, later Mike,
searches faces in photographs
looking for connection:
the keeper of family stories.
On the woodland trail
I hear your voice,
brush away dark leaves,
search for footprints.