Sugar

S.W. Oliver

The mill at Jaranou

Macheteros flame
then hack the cane

clouds of ash
clot the sky

the sickening stench
of saccharine thickens our throats

my eleven-year self

sees something askew,
vaguely threatening,
in the diffident
dark-skinned man
who delivers
my guava juice
each morning

My Father
Imperial U.S. Prince
of Cuban Refining
caught in Havana

the hurricane roiling in

shunted home - fast
for fear of reprisals

Clouds still hang
over Jaranou

the mill closed
my father dead

I always dreamed

he’d call me

honey