Tag: Immigrant Stories

I have read García Márquez so many times
that sometimes I feel nauseous.

Not because he failed me.

Because he didn’t.

Because, for one second
I still believe longing can be holy
if the language is good enough.

But I come from Cuba.

And Cuba taught me
not every ruin is metaphor.

Some people got literature.

We got suitcases.

We got the sea
not as symbol
but as distance.

We got men speaking of revolution
with full mouths
while a country learned hunger
like a second language.

So yes
he frightens me.

Not the brilliance.

The ease of it.

The way beauty can sit
at the wrong table
and still be served.

The way a sentence
can kneel beside power
and still smell like flowers.

I do not know
what to do with that.

With the book in my hand
and Cuba in my throat.

With the part of me
that still wants the magic

and the part of me
that knows what men
have hidden inside it.

I have forgiven too much
when it arrived beautifully.

A country.

A man.

A memory.

Some days I love myself
for seeing it.

Some days
I do not know myself at all.

I look at my own heart
and think

how many times
have you called the knife
a flower

because you needed
to hold it?

I have read García Márquez so many times
that sometimes I feel nauseous.

The spell breaks.

The music
keeps playing.

And there I am

old enough to know better

still listening.