The Lightning Dreamer (9 page)

 

As I gaze up at glowing sun rays,
I wonder how long it will be
until I grow brave enough
            to follow
the little bird's
            soaring
pathway . . .

Do free birds and beasts
ever lie awake, troubled
by questions of justice?
At bedtime, I struggle
to stop thinking
of bondage and liberty,
cruelty and kindness,
wrong and right . . .
but fierce cries
and clattering hoofbeats
from the cobblestone street
beyond my barred window
rattle into my mind
like drumbeats of wildly
pounding questions.

 

I am engaged to a slave owner.
How does he treat his slaves,
and how will he treat a newly
purchased wife?

Tula joins me, and we sit
in the smoky kitchen,
murmuring questions
without answers.

 

Will the rebels ever win?
Is it possible that someday
slaves will be free,
and kings
will vanish,
and everyone will vote,
even women?

Secret conversations
with Caridad
leave me feeling hopeful.

 

But after the rebels have once again
been defeated, I slip back down
to my usual
gloomy thoughts,
followed by music and noise
with Rosa and Lola—parties, dances,
and strolls around the plaza . . .
but what use are the admiring gazes
of gallant young men when I'm already
promised
to a stranger?

Boys lose interest in me
once they hear my modern
opinions. I need to spend time
with people who agree with me
about freedom for all—books
can no longer be my only portals.

 

Manuel, always curious, helps me
venture along narrow alleyways
to secret
tertulia
s—banned meetings
where rebel-poets recite their own
dangerous verses, along with
the smuggled poetry of Heredia,
brave, forbidden poems,
powerful ones, verses that burst
with possibilities.

 

Will I ever be bold enough
to read my own rhymes out loud,
in public?

I risk my life for Tula's love
of verse.

 

Heredia is not just an abolitionist,
but an
independista,
promoting
the independence of Cuba.
My sister and I could be charged
with treason—arrest, torture,
exile, even execution . . .

 

We risk everything,
all for the crime of listening
to poems.

 

But Heredia has influenced me
as much as Tula. Lacking her talent
for flowery words, I hope to work
in some other way as a champion
of the twin causes—freedom
for slaves, and freedom
from kings.

 

Tula has a third cause,
all her own. No one agrees,
not even the rebels.
If women could choose
their own husbands,
and vote, and be elected,
wouldn't their sweet natures
grow just as rude and unruly
as men's?

My life is a balancing act
as dangerous as any carnival
performance. I roam back and forth
between banned poetry readings,
elegant parties, Caridad's kitchen,
the nuns' library, and my own
exhilarating orphan theater.

 

With my thoughts forced into secrecy,
I have entered a phase of legends.
The orphans perform plays inspired
by folktales—such a wonderful
way to hide
my true meanings!

 

There is one tale about
an ugly vulture with a kind heart,
and another about a tiny rabbit
who dreams of growing up to be
as strong and brave
as a lion,
and there is the wistful tale
of an earthbound turtle
who believes he can learn
how to fly.

 

Perhaps I'm as foolish
as that clumsy old turtle,
but I do believe that someday
silenced words
will rise
and glide.

Tula's legends about snakes
terrify us. A huge serpent chants
lullabies so sweet that birds in flight
fall asleep and tumble down
from the sky.

 

Yet somehow, at the same time,
that same legend also satisfies us,
because in the end, the snake
is transformed
into a skinny
palm tree
with no
voice
at all.

 

In Tula's legends, gentle creatures
are always rewarded by speaking,
while cruel ones are punished
with silence.

I think of my feather pen
as something magical
that still belongs
to a wing.

 

All I need
is paper, ink,
and the courage
to let wild words soar.