Calle Neptuno, La Habana

not calle neptuno in centro havana
by Ray Ball, PhD

My ankle wobbles as I step                                                                on the uneven
textures                                               of the
street                                                               and                              sidewalks.
                                    In the afternoon
heat                                                                 the trash                      piled high
            shimmers                                            in the intersections
of                                 Centro                                                 Havana.
                                     
                                                A sign reads:               do
                                                                                                not
                                                                                                            litter!

But a man
                                    tosses an empty          can                              anyway.
Other men       squat                                       in the intersection
flattening                                other cans                                           with sledgehammers.
A cycle rickshaw clatters                   by.                                          Its driver
                                    plays                                       “Despacito.”             
I
try
to
walk
more
slowly.                                                                                                I try
            to let the colors                                   saturate,
to let                            the catcalls      roll off            my shoulders,                        
            but beads                                             of sweat
                        stick                            to                                             my skin.                                 

A dog  
            cocks  
a leg                            and urinates                                                    on a faded wall.
Not the one                             with                 a mural                        of Fidel and Chávez
but the one                  that is              already                                    yellow.
 
                                    All the while, jackhammers drill,
                                    and I cannot walk slowly  
 
enough.                                                                                               He approaches.
He offers to sell me cigars. No?                    Rum, then.                  No?  
                        He proposes marriage                        suggests a city  
tour at a socialist price.                                  Requests                     I buy

him                  milk.                                       The tourists get the fresh  
and we get the rancid,
                                                                       he says, and I
            think about pressing  
                        money into his hand,  
but my landlady has warned me                                                        against

this.                 While I hesitate,                                 he moves on.  
            Now once again                                  I try to focus  
on not tripping                        on one                                                             of the many giant cracks
in the                                       s  id  ewa   lk.
In spite            of it                                         all,                               I fall
                                                            anyway.


Ray Ball, PhD, is a history professor and Pushcart nominee. She is the author of two history books, and her creative work has recently appeared in Coffin Bell, Ellipsis Zine, Moria, and UCity Review. Ray serves as an associate editor of the literary journal Alaska Women Speak. You can find her hiking and running Alaska’s trails, researching in the Spanish and Italian archives, or on Twitter @ProfessorBall.

(And don’t miss Ray’s poem Moveable Feast, a touching memorial to her aunt about St. Sarkis Day. – Elephants Never)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.