and the people, the island, identidad run in place, getting nowhere folding in and
again on itself in the rhythmic search
as I try to remember what I do not know
CubaCuba cube a cue ball cue music coo coo baa baa black sheep c—u—b—a
Cuba cubed high stakes square root family tree soupy roots a little sweet and raw smoke blowing a refrain Cuba
Cuba bacu bacu vaca cooed crude accuse accurse cuisinart arte de nada la Havana have it all vanity la Habana habenero
have half half Cuban
not enough
el Cubano bano sangria sangre santo vino paz Oz an exile of
Cuba
an exile
Cuba foreigner outsider
jagged identity
Home in a Sentence
Coming home after my first year of college, walking into the grocery store with my
mom, she asks, "So does it feel like home"—I grin as I look up at the flapping sign
hanging on Piggly Wiggly's brick wall, red letters curling on white, the words and
the smiling pig sharing in the joke as I point up at the sign that reads IT FEELS
LIKE HOME and even though I keep calling my dorm and South Bend "home" that summer,
I know that this place where grocery stores have the name "Piggly Wiggly" would always
mingle in my bones and call to me.
