The ladies on the Miami-Havana flight
remember the white dresses of their mothers,
their tiny feet and perfect nails.
They remember the clear colors of Cuba:
the yellow, green and blue facades.
They remember the verandas, the clubhouse
and the Hotel Nacional. They remember
the iron-barred windows, the bullet-proof doors,
the mosquito netting as profusely draped
as the Virgin's gown, fold upon fold,
tucked, billowing, liberally arranged.

They remember closets filled with silken frocks
and calfskin shoes, ball gowns, wedding dresses.
They remember officials keen to uncover flight,
to discover too much luggage, too many jewels,
signs that only half of a roundtrip ticket
ever would be used. One lady remembers her mother
wrenching off her diamond and giving it
to the officer inspecting the bags. "Here," she said,
"I will leave this with you for safekeeping."

The expulsion from their island was not forced.
They could have stayed. They could have watched
their villas of white marble and jasper
transformed into maternity homes and schools.
They chose to pack necessities, to smuggle money,
to leave for Miami, Boston, Jacksonville, New York.

They return to Cuba now to visit Isabel, Marisa,
Elena, Dioni, Maria, those who stayed because their husbands
would not leave, because their mothers were ill,
those with tiles missing from the kitchen walls,
those who every morning pour a second round a hot water
through the damp coffee grounds.

One woman remembers the family's haste,
each of her uncles thinking the other had arranged
their eldest sister's passage, leaving
her by mistake alone in the mansion, her Louis XV chairs
growing dingy with dust and moths, the carpets,
silver, furniture sold one by one to keep her in okra and rice.

The ladies on the Miami-Havana flight wear gaudy
hats and they are fat with clothes: two blouses,
vests, stockings stuffed into pockets, bottoms
huge with a bustle of rolled up jeans, packages
of coffee, rice, flour, bras filled with chorizos.
They have pinned lace, ribbons, earring, bracelets
to their hats. The airline limits luggage, but they
cannot limit a person's weight. They attach
the WalMart goods and fill themselves
with merchandise: colanders, radios, pressure cookers.
The ladies on the Havana-Miami flight return hatless.
They have waists and small breasts.
They are imprinted with the kisses of sisters,
brothers, cousins, bruised by the farewell embraces.
Only now as they doze briefly before Miami do they allow
themselves to drift back to when all the bells in Havana
rang at daylight--every church, every square, every tower,
raucous with daylight, the dozen cane-bottom rocking chairs
arranged in two even lines in each sitting room, stirred
slightly into motion, the dozen cuspidors glinting with sunrise.

                                Published in Press Fall 1997