Cuba Sí
My daughter’s face assumes a rounded pout.
She stamps and whines, complains about the wait.
She’s not yet three and not quite sure about
“Departure time”, and “boarding pass” and “gate”.
But once we hear the droning engine sound
and we’re aloft on alloyed silver sweep,
at last she yawns then turns and settles down—
exhausted body slumped in boneless sleep.
She’ll pass twelve hundred miles in mute repose,
yawn again, sit up and rub her eyes
to see a strange enchanted land composed
of humid purple gloaming, peacock cries,
glittering pools for plunging, wet and sleek;
a laughing, splashing, magic golden week.
~ Charles Martinuzzi, 2026