When a Cuban General Says They Will Build Ostrich Farms

---

We know they pump out god-sized eggs

in unbroken harvest, and we are told

to prepare for their coming, our beautiful

bird saviors, cheaper than chickens,

a desperate avian offering from the

scorched nothings of Havana.

Summon the flightless foot racer, mutated

swan of the long leg, round bundle of fast hips

and feathers, for when we think of prehistoric limb

and reptilian claw prancing through el campo,

we fall further into myth and who we can be

under ostrich, dictator, fallen home, famine.

In prayer to our Pegasus, the divinity

of this unreal island.

And we eat what we think we could become,

and we savor what we can take from the body,

and we dream the flavor of milk from the

dearth of cow, sickened from hay fever,

and in the absence of milk it still reaches

the bones. Our tongues dream of taste.

What could be served to others at the

cruise ships, money like steamed petals

bursting from the armpit, our strange flowers

of Varadero, tourists from Eden. To savor

some hint of guanábana, pinch of guava,

mamey poured through the toxins of the

sweet flowers from the dead tree,

its unknowingness, the wormy fruit

boiled to heal our ripe pains.

O Ostrich Land, let us see in the dark.

Permit us our trek to exile, our lack of

voltage to guide us or cover the terrifying stars.

Please sweeten the waters. Let us race through

if our bodies fall in, soften the blows of the sharks,

teeth cleaned of our blood. Let us sail like the cruise

ships of the unburning. Cover our eyes with citrus

and honey, meet the distant fire unblinking,

in boats of wood from the undead gardens.

Do not permit us to lose our way.

Give us the money to scintillate our hands

and carve out feast at the table, not bird

nor cow nor angel, not lost or injured

or thirsty or turned back, let us leave you

so we can land on shores unseen,

our mouths like magnets worshipping

at unoffered bounty.