1. StrandsI spool the long
threads of your tarnished
hair between my fingers,
listen to your stuttered
breath, the clicking
of your dreamcatcher's beads
as they rise and fall
in the fan's swell.
Once, I was afraid of you.
As we sat on a blanket
beneath the pines that day,
you told me you could
uproot any tree,
make it land hundreds
of feet away—trained
in explosives, you'd been
part of an underwater
demolition team.
I like blowing things up,
you said. How many,
I wondered, had you killed.
How many would you.
2. Bay of Pigs
We swam twenty miles
to Playa Girón. The distance
was nothing, then.
We didn't know Kennedy
had already pulled
air cover for the operation
and had left us to die.
I was blown ten stories
into the air, remember
nothing but the percussive
moan of metal.
And dying men.
I was the only one
on my team who lived.
You don't think
I think about that?
3. Black and White
The photo's on your dresser:
you're young—maybe 19—
in Navy uniform,
standing on the porch
of your parents' farmhouse.
I can see the sinewed
curve of your hips,
and you're smiling
back at the camera,
at someone I'll never know—
perhaps your mother
or father. A girlfriend.
And where was I
in 1960? —not even born.
4. Tattoo
I woke in a blood-
frothed tide, the corpses
blooming coral
in the sand. I could hear
Castro's men
making their way
down the beach,
shooting anyone
they found alive.
When they got to me,
I was so weak
I could only point
to the anchor tattooed
on my arm. "American,"
I kept saying. I believe
it's what saved me.
5. Current
I was afraid of you once,
your love of raw
materials: metal, oil,
wood and tobacco.
Between your hands,
conductive, anything
resinous might burn.
I trace your tattoo
with the tip of my finger,
follow the faded blue
cursive of your name,
John, across your arm.
Kiss your lips.
Scent of smoke.
