Cinder blocks framed the sunrise orange
as I pushed aside the mosquito netting
to greet the jade-green frog who lived
beneath the toilet seat, found another stall
and grabbed my aluminum cup.
Ready for café con lêche and breakfast.
Every day, beneath my pick axe
I teased the baked calcium rock into crumbling,
poured cement, straightened nails, and
marveled at mangoes ripening on every tree.
Cuba, 1973, we built new housing and a school
in Los Naranjos, northwest of Habana.
Together we visited places Fidel had made famous,
the Moncada Garrison and the Sierra Maestra,
trips to dairy farms where we met Raul Castro and
three generations of women who’d lived in a cardboard shack,
a grandmother as tough-looking as the rock
I hammered every day, refusing to give in.
Saturday was party night, our group leaders,
students from the university led the charge,
dancing as hard as they worked, hair curled
and shoes shined, spinning across the plaza.
I watched from the outside rim,
could never hope to move with such conviction
kicking my legs, shaking my hips, laughing.