September 2, 2009 by The Citron Review
Puerto Sagua, Collins Drive, South Beach Miami
A magnet protrudes from the register’s side,
a metal clip an earring dangling the day’s receipts
extolling the steps walked, the cups of coffee poured.
An all-American dinner of black beans, yucca frit con mojo, and café con leche,
bills pass from sandy sunburned hands to calloused palms
to a register as old as memories of Cuba,
of streamline aluminum and rounded keys like the curves and portholes
of the Ocean Drive hotels, stationary steamships yearning o sail,
weighted down by the thick, black iron of the cash drawer.
Though the sheer eggshell curtain I see
hazy outlines of honeysuckle blossoms, white-pink
smudges, a watercolor left in the rain. A breeze displaces
the panel revealing the flowers’ beauty banging against the screen
asking to be saved from the brooding sky behind;
clouds promise pelting daggers of water—not gentle
refreshing rain—rain that drowns earth and roots,
rain that weighs and breaks.
The wind pauses, the honesuckle retreats to stillness,
ready to stand its ground. The curtain resets the illusion,
like the time my blink was a breeze that displaced
your mask for a moment