Bare Shelves


The woman washes her clothes
with crumbling soap
and lets the water flow
down the cracked blue tiles.
Beads of sweat run off her chin
as she twists the thin towels
one way and then the other.

Gekkos scurry up the cement wall
in transluscent flashes of green
then hide in the jasmine pots.

One by one,
she hangs the towels
on the rope
stretched across the courtyard;
next door, glossy black men
roll balls of dough
in the pink of their palms,
flatten, punch and roll them again
while young boys wait outside
to carry fresh, fragrant crust
on flimsy, rickety carts

Blessed revolution, she sighs,
we have all the freedom
blessed revolution, she sighs
today there might be soap.
There might be no line,
no sweaty bodies rubbing
shoulder to shoulder
waiting for bare shelves
to deliver a promise.
.

I Stay Still

Palm fronds bend in the wind
soak up the walls of rain
rushing in after the thunder

Like rubber fingers
bent at the joint
a tropical line dance
this way and that way

In the crashing waves
stranded swimmers bob,
gasp and come up for air
with the exuberant yell
of the free spirit
soaked to the bone
arms up to the sky,
all dirt and salt washed away,
a circle of dark heads
in a milky green sea,
a circle of silent wishes
leaving sandy footprints
in their memories

Palm fronds bend in the wind
soak up the walls of rain
rushing in after the thunder

The wrought iron gate
Twists and clangs
But I stay still
At the window

~

Cuba, 2007

~

words: Suzanne Aubin, Canada (Cuba photos)
photo: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)