Sous Rature


Celina Su













Postcarded in Cuba
            Bahia de Matanzas, 2006

I. Havana

No US embassy, of course.
Only, an official special Interest,
Sleeping next to the monument to Elián.
Sometimes, a grave Concern. Almost disarming,
Heavily safeguarded by cruising men.
Black star flags stand in the way of Googled freedom.
A bloodletting for the bruised hearts of bombs.

Incandescent invincibles. Mots justes. In the absence of.
(Thinking back to all those rallying crowds at Union Square.
Not there, even. In the midst of shoe ads, dancing silhouettes.
Or big, multi-storied underwear people. Whole
American Virgin mega forever & noble mania warehouse.)
Mulled over, I carry a suitcase amygdala.

These balling, dancing folks tell me:
      Home ownership rates mean nothing
      Without entertaining plasma.
      Universal health coverage won’t fertilize
      My music download collection.
      & what is basketball without
      Air Irans? I could just kill you for those shoes—

Or, as the English call them, trainers—
But my personal ones are closeted
In some epistemology of the covet.
Those skinny ass jeans are to die for.
Blunt transformations of my disconnect
A sort of pointy-toed slippered sadness.

In Beijing my friends joked that schadenfreude
Is actually a Chinese word. Or Esperanto.
Gleefully. WTO pacemakered annual growth.

I beg of you: Distill my heart.
Dignify this vertiginous life-expectancy.
Post-Soviet my brassiere, please.
Honor this arrhythmia of my economic valves.


II. Matanzas

At the clinic, rectal ozone machines
Render my special period
A giant raft-hungry placebo.
The supposed end of neoliberalism,
A perestroika of homeopathy.
Ooh, & the beach is to die for.
Especially on these hot days, a nice, cold war.

Block party! The party block. Block this party.
The difference between fiesta and partido-- lies in.
You see, those committed to defending the Revolution
Feed me ruby soda and sweets.
(Awkwardly, the kids aren’t allowed to partake in this.
Gracelessly, we embargo cured meningitis.
Who would have known, that this poor, poor…)
Grab my hands, twirl me ballooned wishes of love & love.
Wish you were fear.

Cigars aren’t allowed back,
Only “educational” souvenirs,
So I got you a dream-shaped procedure.

It’s structurally adjusting my hyperglycemic red.
On the way from. On the way from.
I cover my brains on the way to.
Oh sub rosa palimpsest. Your senses cry over my wet foot,
But my dry foot sinks deeper.