NUMBERS

In some other city it’s always surprising to find

what we expect of this country’s nights.

Surprising to find that the scent

my grandmother celebrated for years

still exists.

1800 isn’t only an eau de cologne.

Neither is it just a number,

but something refused at every border

yet still seductive

as all that is prohibited tends to be.

I open the flask of 1800 that has

become a Pandora’s box

containing

—with its residue of naphthalene—

Sindo Garay’s afternoon

falling on the Bayamesa’s perfect breasts

and beside her, in a tiny cubbyhole,

my grandmother’s handkerchief,

still imbued with the scent that remains

in this tremulous and lonely Cuban room.