Past the third cup of coffee
the dream still clings to my skin
gutting my stomach like sacrifice.
There is a green bottle, six feet tall,
my name is on the label, and so is
my birth year, “Producto de Cuba, 1962”
Inside the bottle is the struggle.
The prisoner enclosed in the emerald
shape expands his shoulders,
(which look translucent)
and shifts his weight side to side until
the glass cocoon shatters and gives way
to a naked white body brandishing wings.
He picks glass shards out of his hair,
stands up, stretches like a predator
and takes flight. He never speaks to me,
watching from bed ungratefully surprised.
I am now on my fourth cup of coffee
unsure if I have seen my own birth or death.
DQ 2/27/09
