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)