AFTER CACHAO'S "A FRANCISQUITA LE GUSTA EL CUSUBÉ"

The hands of the tumba player are doves, dark and melodic
in their slap-dash against the pellejo de chivo, tumbadoras

majicas, “rompelo que ya están pagá!” Francisquita’s hips
swaying to “suabana, suabana, suabana.” In this land so close

to that island, el cocodrilo encendido, the gods of rhythm
are at play, beating gourds, tambores, and bongó. The flute

soars into the azure heavens, hangs there like a cotorra
in flight. It whispers “free” into the wind. Soon, soon, soon.

Liberty comes to those who’ve been dancing all this time,
dancing to forget. Among the rubble, el escombro, descarga

in exile, how the music fills this room, that one, echoes
down the street to the beach, floats over the water’s surface,

crested waves roiling back to the beginning of their sound.
Cachao, bassist king, close your eyes and take us back, sueña, sueña, sueña.