Manuel Sánchez. Lavish

Lis Sanchez

Before there were cavalry horses sheening the street

with golden turds, there were strains of a treble wafting

out of the whitewashed café, perturbing the flamboyán’s red petals.

Before there were boardroom bosses, there were hacendados

with cutting whips, with wrought iron hair,

with hooves for stamping macheteros out of the high cane.

Before Rough Riders were storming the street, Civil Guards were

perfecting the art of torture.

Before there was a bronze Cristóbal Colón there was Cristóbal Colón

manicuring his nails. You opened your arms, he lopped

them off. You opened your mouth, death crawled in.

Before, I was lavishing a woman’s hands with coffee berries, humming.

My whole body was humming. Now I am

walking away from my flattened orchard with the same woman.

With her blowing white sash, with her berry-stained fingers,

she hears me shriek at the wind, and insists I am singing.