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El Oriental de Cuba, "La Esquina del Sabor"
by Rafael Campo
Victorians surrounding it, the place
is just a storefront restaurant that seats
about a dozen people; strange, to taste
roast pork that’s drenched in mojo, yuca frites,
and milkshakes of mamey this far up North.
Outside, if they were still alive, I might
expect my grandparents to pass, the force
of their unending exile not quite
enough to stop them—only slow them down.
Abuela, stooped by bags of groceries,
her makeup’s compensation overdone;
and Granpa, brittle as his misery,
his guayabera barely filled by bones.
I wonder whether she’d prepare congrí
for him, upon their safe arrival home.
If only they could get there, finally.
Copyright © Rafael Campo
by Rafael Campo
Victorians surrounding it, the place
is just a storefront restaurant that seats
about a dozen people; strange, to taste
roast pork that’s drenched in mojo, yuca frites,
and milkshakes of mamey this far up North.
Outside, if they were still alive, I might
expect my grandparents to pass, the force
of their unending exile not quite
enough to stop them—only slow them down.
Abuela, stooped by bags of groceries,
her makeup’s compensation overdone;
and Granpa, brittle as his misery,
his guayabera barely filled by bones.
I wonder whether she’d prepare congrí
for him, upon their safe arrival home.
If only they could get there, finally.
Copyright © Rafael Campo
