By Nancy Morejón
Though he wanted to throw you in the Mississippi,
the cannibal in the murky uniform
with his knee has scorched into silence
your motionless throat.
The smoke of your flesh ascends to a wet heaven.
Hopping among the flowers, your breath
chases his ghost and manages to bite
the bloody fang of the cannibal.
But you inspire, indomitable, lying on the wet asphalt,
under the quiet shade of an apple tree
in Minneapolis,
where we will place, for you,
this shinning, clean
Black Prince Rose of ours,
to your memory.
Cerro, June 4, 2020
Nancy Morejon is an award-winning Cuban poet, critic and essayist who lives in Havana.
Translation: Ana Elena de Arazoza