MIRANDA DIAZ
Abuelo I sat cross-legged on the cool concrete Listening to the harsh mosquito hum Watching ice cubes slowly melt in a glass Of rum and coke, red and orange bleeding Together in the sunshine afterthought Of a late summer, sticky and stagnant. Libre spelled in liquor, Cuba on ice. Waterlogged speakers spilled Celia Cruz Into the humid air, clogged with the sharp Sweetness of my grandfather’s long cigar. Thick around the stuffing of tobacco, Volcanic-dust ash tapped into a tray, A pungent crown of smoke settled on his Not-yet gray head. His mustache was waxed stiff, Royalty enthroned on a wicker chair. His linen shirt was ironed flat, bright white, But wrinkled with his eyes as he leaned back Into his kingdom of palm trees and bricks. Libre was in a Miami backyard, And Cuba was held tight between his lips.
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