Dust and Broughtonia

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.

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.