Letter from La Habana

Imagine lying in bed
three in the morning
with a pretty mulatta,
she sings for me
a romantic tune
from her not-distant childhood
as waves slither
along the beach
accompanying a little wind--
I think of
savage Penthesilea
in Kleist's story, crazed
by unexpected desire
to destroy her chance
at happiness, misunderstanding
Achilles' submission,
devouring him
with her dogs, doomed
thereafter, a ghost of love--
I understand you now,
my Cuban girl's song
lost to myth, the elegant night
caught in her impossible throat.



Unsent Letter from La Habana

In the Cuban night
color of Havana club
I stared at the black sea
raising itself
above the Malecón
an ancient, stubborn beast
trying again and again
to climb ashore
to get back to where
once he had been
And I thought of you
dancing in that beautiful room
high above the white streets
of San Francisco
while I played the piano
looking out a window at clouds
color of sand at Varadero
How to get back, I thought
what miserable beasts we are
how impossibly stubborn
to be in love forever