Rescuing Abuelo (1967)

My eyes know him soon as they spot him 
           face and skin just like my father’s
                      around thirty
                                 no pockmarks yet
                                            and darker than his already dark
                                                       from tanning all day in Camagüey

                                            The UMAP has him pick yuca and guayaba 
                                 cut trees fertilize and weed
                      from head to toe of each day

           He and the others like him 
hippies gays artists priests
           all graft off specific guilts

                      Abuelo’s guilt was wanting to leave 
                                 with his family
                                            They went without him 
                                                       and he without them
                                                                  for four years

                                                       Spotting him there
                                            sweat vine-swinging from his back 
                                 with each machete chop
                      only now does the plan edge on moot

           I’d supposed
What if I found the violent root
           If I stole him back to his children 
                      could he love on them gentler

                                 I’d taken
                                            a machete
                                                       chopped those years from our branches

                                            I’d watched 
                                 them fall and die
                      alongside what seemed like their fruits

           in a round fat one
the times my father heard one sharp shh!
           to be quiet
                      or else force his father’s hands 
           in a dark blue oval
his welts from Abuelo’s belt
           and one held whatever earned
                      my father’s huge hand cross my face
                                 for crying as our dogs tried to kill each other 
                                            streaking concrete and grass deep red
                                                       snarls steady as a day’s work

                                            The between-my-ears whispers 
                                 what if what made Abuelo
                      or what unmade him 
           might unmake me or what if
it can’t be lopped off a tree
           can’t ungrow below our dirt

                      My back turns from the camp 
                                 My feet lumber forward
                                            a Cuban Orpheus in setting sun

                                                       While all around the trees wave farewell 
                                                                  like the holy ceiba
                                                                             its buttresses tall as a full-grown man

Read more from Issue 18.2.