65 Years in the USA
By Samantha C Carleton
Long enough that all the old Cubans are dying—
the ones who remember Havana before
its sandcastle skyline crumbled—
but short enough that I know all their stories,
heard them straight
from the primary sources
again and over and over again
until I, too, knew what it felt like
to roller skate down the hill from the house
where my great-grandmother grew up.
Long enough that the ones still left
forgot the temperature of the sea—
the chance to remind themselves passed
the third time they realized Fidel wasn’t dead—
but short enough that when my husband asks
if the porcelain of their Promised Land has cracked,
and if we, too, should leave to live a
new language
and culture
and no guarantee of return—
for the first time, I think of my great-grandmother,
in her living room in Havana,
while her husband asks her
the same thing.
Perhaps he promised they’d come back
when this government burned, like the others before.
Perhaps she cut and glued
each shadow of the room into a collage
and hung it in the museum of her memory.
Perhaps she knew better.
Transference
By Samantha C Carleton
Two souls sit in the purple in-between,
one recently arrived, one leaving soon:
a woman and baby destined to share
the same space at the same time for just a moment.
Perhaps they take their earthly forms,
the woman wearing a crown of braids,
the baby with wide, focused eyes.
Perhaps they are light, all knowing of all
that has passed, is passing, will be.
(I like to imagine these things,
though the details don’t matter).
They exchange instructions or understanding
in words or vibrations or energy waves—
something, somehow passes between them,
impossible for you and I to comprehend,
but not so for souls unbound by fickle bodies.
If the woman still had that body now,
she could make it walk again, forward
with fuller breaths and clearer head
than she’d managed these last 16 years.
Instead, her soul is lit up and lightened,
a crystal slice of snowflake dancing away
to the music she was taught a moment ago.
And if the baby could speak,
she would repeat everything she was told
about her mother’s wish for a snuggly child
and hope for wildness, for wonder of words.
Instead, when her soul alights on the earth,
she remembers to keep her eyes focused and wide,
to say, I know who we are the best way she can.
Someday, I will know us, too,
no longer new species to study and learn.
I will realize that this child came to be
because someone who knew me
knew what to tell her soul first.
Bio: Samantha Costanzo Carleton is a Cuban-American poet. Her work tends to sit at intersections: of family and independence, motherhood and selfhood, grief and joy, and all the tiny moments in between. She has an MA in Contemporary Creative Writing from Northeastern University and lives in Massachusetts with her husband and daughter.
Author’s Note: I find that some events feel impossible to talk about, even if I really want to. They’re too complex or slippery or shocking for memoir, too incredible already to be fictionalized. Poetry is right there in the middle, letting me talk about my life in a way that feels both honest and fulfilling.
