And I, wishing to be back in Cuba,
wander a room rich with rocking chairs,
emptiness. Alone on the nightstand,
"The Count of Monte Cristo," bound in leather
and dust. Dust on the window.
I smudge the panes with my right cuff.
And outside, madder crimson Broughtonia
in greenhouses, barbed fences dripping with bougainvillea,
wild flowers by the roadside deeper than dye -
but I think only of Broughtonia,
purple cousins of these displaced, red ones,
purpling only the mountains of Cuba.