Cuba, 1962

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When the rooster jumps up on the windowsill 
and spreads his red-gold wings,
I wake, thinking it is the sun
and call Juanita, hearing her answer,
but only in my mind.
I know she is already outside,
breaking the cane off at ground level,
using only her big hands.
I get the machete and walk among the cane, 
until I see her, lying face-down in the dirt.

Juanita, dead in the morning like this. 
I raise the machete—
what I take from the earth, I give back—
and cut off her feet.
I lift the body and carry it to the wagon, 
where I load the cane to sell in the village. 
Whoever tastes my woman in his candy, his cake, 
tastes something sweeter than this sugar cane; 
it is grief.
If you eat too much of it, you want more, 
you can never get enough.

© Ai