This poem originally appeared in MQR: 33.3, a special issue on Cuba, guest edited by Ruth Behar. The complete issue is available in our archives.
All I have
is the fine edge of the table
where I work and sustain myself.
As a child I’d ask my father
why though still awake
he closed his eyes.
He’d tell me it was so
his eyes could rest.
A bridge over this world.
A few planks for two insomniacs
bumping into each other.
Translated by Ruth Behar
