By Alessandra Gonzalez
Rumors of Sugar and Salt
The palm fronds whisper to me in the night through sandy needlepoint winds, they tell secrets of all sorts held by a kindred spirit. That within the sea walls, all down the length of the island there is music on every corner. In the clacking of domino tiles on patios, the bass of motorcycles commanded by malandros, the whipping of wind through laundry hanging off each window, the salsa emanating from parked 1950s American cars. Even the shadows are warm – time creeps on the island so the sun may take in every grateful swaying greeting from the sugarcane stalks. In the process, droplets gather along the edges of cold glasses of guarapo; the smell of roasted pork and black beans permeates through baking balconies in the afternoon. The people have the power to cure almost anything with only a spoon and a prayer – each star represents a time when one of the saints made good on a promise. There are strings of pearls hiding just beneath the surrounding ocean’s surface, and rafts bounce to and fro on the waves of light. The sea knows the names of every citizen who took up a paddle and left, the waves remember to check in on the families they left behind. The coffee is so strong it can wake the fallen, and I feel them stir when the currents underneath me grow cold. The ghosts of Cuba’s past keep me up at night.
I can only visit Camagüey in poems because
the streets are slick with Fidel Castro’s ambition. Tears and blood flow through the pipes underneath and remain collected in the large clay jars planted in front of my family’s former homes. Red, white, and blue patriotism may be a reason for execution if arranged improperly on the flag. America still restricts travel to the island, where my father is unrecognizable as a citizen of the United States. The streetlights cease even to flicker above crumbling roads that were once a path through the Pearl of the Antilles. Graying yellow and teal buildings surrender themselves to relentless winds that whip up from the sugarcane fields to reveal only an overpowering flavor of salt instead. The city brings memories too painful to explore into the hearts of my abuelos; it is a reminder that the grass was greener and the ocean more inviting. Their sacrifice lives in my respect for the invisible wall along the latitude drawn between the island and my peninsula.
Alessandra Gonzalez is a Cuban American poet who dedicates her craft to pinning down the parallels between palm trees. Her work explores the tangled roots of family, memory, and identity, weaving personal experiences with the layered history of Cuba. When she’s not writing, you can find her chasing the perfect cafecito, getting lost in old photo albums, or wondering what the ocean remembers.