Loose lipped are the angry youth of Habana.
A mother a medical professional at no more than 50 Euros a month.
A boy, graduated after 6 years of university only to choose cab driving as a career alternative for the CUCs it brings.
He vocalizes and we gasp.
Wow we say.
He laughs at our ignorance.
Keep your mouth shut, keep your mouth shut.
Or boom, kapow. A figurative bullet at my husbands head and the fear leaves me restless.
We ask him about the dried up fountains.
Not a drop to be found.
Head to the wheel he laughs.
It is ironic.
Tourists observing such absurd things.
Sometimes. Sometimes there is a little water.
But the AC in the mercado, it is an oven in the mercado because the AC is rarely on.
It is an oven in Cuba.
And it’s about to set off a fire.
I saw it tonight and in two days we leave.
All that pent up anger.
The venom and the sperm.
The hormones and the drive.
The youth of Cuba have words their parents never dared to think let alone articulate.
And in this colonial villa, with faraway ceilings and ornate tiles,
I fear the words.
Before the kapow.