Natalia Martínez-Kalínina

90 Miles

I wish, but I know I will not die by jaguar
—no, pipo —
because I’m certain I’ll die in Cuba, 
and the deadliest predator on that island is a mosquito.  

I also know it won’t be sudden— 
there, death is a woman with a slow cooker,
she swings to a cadence I cannot mimic when she walks,
she calls people mimi and mima, 
and I cannot tell the difference between
who gets called what,
she will know me because I forgot how to follow her rhythm, 
and she will bite off chunk by chunk— 
a homeland claiming back its wayward child in uneven, raw pieces,
¿Qué hija pródiga, ni que pródiga,
en qué año abandonaste la patria? 

I’ll be holding a passport renewed after 20 years, 
stapled—officially—to the original, 
as if that’s what will keep the thread continuous,
that’s how we connect the dots from a child who 
didn’t realize she was fleeing 
to an adult riddled in doubt, tortured by choice, 
not knowing what returning is, or why we do it, 
or where we go when we do
—pásame la engrapadora. 

For Cuba is not Japan— 
our U.S. occupation was not equally rehabilitative;
more acutely, we don’t practice kintsugi
—si se rompió la cosa, se rompió la cosa, 
y no hay sabiduría milenaria que la componga—
we dance over it, we gift a piece to the neighbor, 
we keep a piece to maybe bribe someone later,
we bury the rest in the yard
with the help of an old stranger— 
teeth like bright half-moons in the sun— 
who keeps bringing thunder without rain.
I do not know a single prayer to Changó,
but I can tell the dirt is thirsty,
and I hear echoing, drums in my ears, 
even though he moves in silence. 

I’ve never seen a butterfly in Havana  
—I guess we don’t plant for pollinators— 
but I did grow up visiting a turtle that lived in a claw-footed tub.
At the time she did not seem imprisoned, 
now, I guess I would call her conditionally free,
third cousin by arranged marriage of actually free. 
Remember, Carpentier was born in Switzerland, 
died in France, pero está enterrado en el Colón,
or crassly, al que nace pa’ tamal, del cielo le caen las hojas, 
also known as estamos tan jodidos, y rara vez es bello. 

It’ll be piece by piece,
maybe peace by peace, if I’m lucky.

Pulse

Night, swollen with wind, hinchada, 
sky sliced open,
blue pouring out of darkness, secretoso,
stars, like salt on a blanket, 
crystal broken on velvet,
—a tiny yes, nodding when you’ve already decided.

Slices, carvings,
rebanadas, 
casi tajadas,
factures, gorges,
abras, casi abrazos,
quiebros, 
—a big yes, good news, 
unabashed screaming in a parked car.

Synesthesia 

If holy water had a smell
it would be grief
stirred with mercy,
tinged with humidity,
doused with bittersweet, 
fragmented
memory, 
it would taste like salt 
—sweat, ocean—
that gulp when you’re holding a sob,
constellations in which 
half the stars are too dim
to be seen,
a moist wetsuit, 
a wet doorknob,
heartbreak, 
burnt hair,
the rug after an old vacuum,
—poor approximations—
but also
sofrito,
gardenia blossoms,
sunflower oil on a summer salad, 
turning a corner,
eyes adjusting to darkness,
coincidences,
thinking of impossible things, often,
abuela’s bangles clinking down my wrist,
Easter eggs
—redemption.