Family Picture in Havana

Mom and I are alone once again

the same as it was at the end of the forties.






Alone, in a house that's not our own,

we tell each other last night's dreams

(in hers two old people are always crying;

in mine I've just missed a train, a plane or maybe a horse-drawn

carriage.)






Alone, my mother and I

bereft of Dad's protection, who did not, is not and won't ever come back

and then too because her youngest son lives in another country

and my oldest daughter has also left.






Mom and I, in the nineties,

at the turn of the century

again alone, we face each other,

without asking  how life will be,

just really filling in the details of how it used to be.