We have been shitting and pissing in the sealed buses through the night,
then out, and stadium lights click on. Rows of stands standing empty.
I think of the stories of ancient Rome: lions or dogs tearing apart
the faithful in arenas like these. Then here, my own shaking hands.
Some say we will be shot at midfield, but no one is sure.
One dancer can’t forget his training. Still in first position, this man.

Electric barbed wire makes a soft click sound through the night.
Some say it is turned off during the day, but no one is sure.
We are here to learn to be men, so we rip out the grass with our hands.
The man beside me, whose shoe is untied, cries to himself, “Apart
from God, nothing” again and again. I suddenly feel like a man
who has returned from a trip to find his entire town empty.

We are even given a new alphabet. M for Marxism. R for Raúl. Apart
from this, a test: Walk until the soldier believes you are not a gay man.
There is no rice. The boat has not come from China. The empty
dishes could be my own wife’s dishes, so delicate in my hands.
Some say the ungrateful are stabbed with their own forks, but no one is sure.
Beside me, a painter with blistering palms who once did fine work.

They cut the stubborn ones with bayonets. We continue killing the grass, man
after man kneeling. The victory still marked on the scoreboard sits empty.
Someone says the umpires were very unfair that day, but no one is sure.
Many have lost their shoes, and so steal others until no one can tell his apart
from anyone else’s. A lawyer tries to make a point by sitting on his hands.
After we hear him die I can no longer sleep through the night.

We are brought to uproot fields thick with marabú until our hands
are covered in blood and thorns. I wonder if the Jehovah’s Witness thinks man
should be grateful to suffer as Jesus did. Carnations sprout in an empty
patch, but nobody seems to notice. Even together we are apart.
Castro inspects our work. The chicken he brought for his supper squawks until night.
Someone says he will soon move to reduce numbers, but no one is sure.

We stop caring and sleep on the dormitory ground, curled man to man.
The limestone soil is empty. The cottontail’s eyes are empty.
I cannot stop shaking as I pull the root and its own earth apart.
I remember the time my father and I sang by the sea long into the night.
I remember the morning when a frog sunbathed in my cupped hands.
I think my daughters would still know me now, but I cannot be sure.

Related poems

Related authors