search your hand luggage and find them. And, Barbara?? She cupped the American?s face in her hands and drilled her with an
intense look of earnestness and longing. ?You were wrong in what you said to Santos. The truth always matters. Here are two
truths: I love you more than this island - which is a very great deal ? and I am very proud of who you are. You are my Changó,
the king who cannot lie.?
~~~~~~
I don?t feel much like a king, thought Barbara as she looked down on a shrinking Havana through tear-blurred eyes. I feel like
a child that?s been beaten within an inch of its life for saying the emperor has no clothes. I wish you could all see me ? all you
eyes that I have opened. I wish your irises would dilate open and that you could take an x-ray of me so that every damn bone
and flaw showed. I wish you could see me for what I am. I didn?t do anything wrong ? neither did my lover. We didn?t do
anything wrong. No great state secrets were exchanged between us. Unless it was the knowledge that love can grow in the cracks
between the barricades and checkpoints that ideologies set up to keep people apart. And - come to think of it ? empires have
fallen for less.
~~~~~~
June, 1993 Brigham and Women?s Community Clinic, Boston
January 8, 1993
When I cast the day in red
the busses come on time
my skirt is a proper length
people pass each other carefully on the street
and the flag flutters on the breeze just like it appears on postage stamps.
But blue is a peacock?s tail that serves no order
but that of an alluring, waltzing gait
that announces a readiness for the play of flesh on flesh.
When I cast the day in yellow
I am complimented on my efforts
I speak in the safe tones of chastity
lambs approach me instead of tigers
and the breeze tamely refuses to ruffle my hair.
But blue is a lake where I dive
without checking the depth,
each opening of my body permeable to the water?s touch.
When I cast the day in white
the light pretends to reflect all of life?s hues
the routine masquerades as preferable to the exotic
dead nerves insist that only they are clean
and the sides of the road are clear of any distraction.
But blue is me seeking the particular lines in your rock
that lead to the molten layers under your surface
where your heat glows in unearthly cerulean brilliance.
?Can I get you a burger, Doc? I?m headed out to get some lunch.?
The friendly offer of the nurse interrupted Barbara?s reverie as she sat, notebook on her lap, with her feet propped up on the
desk.
?Nah? that?s all right Doris. I can wait til I?m off.? She returned her attention to the poem scrawled on the page. And here I was
thinking that I was the only person rocked that night we first saw each other. Oh, Chela. I wish I?d figured it all out so much
faster, so I could have more memories to hold me until I find you again.
?Oh, Miss Murphy! It?s time for your appearance in ?Fifty Ways to Get a Penny out of a Baby??.
She laughed at the affectionate taunt from the nurse practitioner working the shift alongside her that afternoon.
?I?ll be right there!? she called out. ? I have to get my fingers properly magnetized before I start the job?and I get to keep the
penny!?
She closed the notebook and bowed her head, repeating the same prayer that she said every morning when she rode her bike out
to L Street to throw flowers into the water that made its way slowly up from the Caribbean.
I am waiting, my Yemayá. Come to me and ease this loneliness that breaks me every day. Please.
~~~~~~
To be continued.
Feedback to ortizbriggs@aol.com .
The ordeal with the NSA is loosely based on the experience of Ross Danielson, historian of Cuban medicine, whose dissertation
research was confiscated when he refused to cooperate with U.S. authorities. And it?s not like the other side plays any nicer. I
know.
Translation of ?Lagrimas Negras? (?Black Tears?) by Miguel Matamoros.
?Even though you have left me abandoned/Even though you have killed off all my dreams/ Instead of cursing you in righteous
anger/ In my dreams I heap upon you/ In my dreams I heal upon you blessings./ I suffer the immense loss of your going astray/
I suffer the profound pain of your departure/ And I cry without your knowing that my weeping/ Produces black tears/ Produces
black tears, like my life./ You want to leave me/ I don?t want to suffer/ I will go with you my saint/ Even if it costs my death.?
