Where any mango tree
divides the sky, the air
beneath it becomes solid.
It starts with green
hats, palm leaves
weaved like dreams.
It then turns into men whose
voices rise over the rumble
of small ivory squares
shuffling over a table.
Houses and streets pop
around the table with
the wet hollow sound of
champagne corks and
I am five, holding
my grandfather’s hand
in Guanabacoa, standing
by the mango tree
where the old men
play dominoes and tell
stories in the front yard
of a house in the street
where the French pirate
Jacques de Sores killed a
man when he ransacked
the town in 1555.
He asks me “quieres uno”
and I answer “no, mañana”.
DQ 12/29/06
