I stepped out of my shoes
took off my skirt and shirt
and laid them next to the bent antenna
on the dusty, broken TV set
that faced the wall of peeling faded wallpaper.
A four-pronged plug
lay belly up on the floor
like a dead cockroach.

He sat on the bed
and with his eyes and a nod
told me to take off my bra
then my underpants.
Then he turned on the overhead light
and that’s all I remember
of what happened that night
in a .25 cent an hour room,
as crummy as they come,
over a noisy bar
in old Havana
where we went
to be alone

They wouldn’t let him visit my hotel room.
“For tourists only!” they said.
So we found another way
as love will always do.
How can I describe the ardor
of my lover?  Fascinated by every aspect
of the act, he loves what he does
and, that I let him do it
inspires adoration
akin to worship.
The squalor doesn’t matter
nor do the odors of urine,
cigar smoke and rum.
This crumbling room is a palace
and I am the queen
receiving my swain.

Then, at one moment
he said, “I like you more than you like me.” in Spanish.
“Comprendes?” and I said “No comprendo.”
in Spanish, then,
certain he couldn’t understand
“It’s better that way.”
in English.
But none of this has anything to do with
The Revolution in Cuba.

Carol Pearlman is a Vallejo poet. The above poem won second place in the Benicia Love Poetry Contest.

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