Guantanamera
Nothing lingers on the lips like a death song, my mother says, while shredding cassavaand invoking the spirits— Celia Cruz José Martí—or singing blood verse, a church lady working the line, refugee intake.Celia rolling pride through a gapin her teeth, a cry that is palm tree splitmiddle-of-night lightning,and my mother, hands full of seashell witchcraft,hands …