Gitmo - Poem #11

Tropical cages
inhabited by human forms
sculpted by the ailments
of our time

weak are the bodies
but still alive
huge eyes, white golf balls,
fleshless frames of bone

held at the Emperor’s pleasure
alive at the Emperor’s whim
there will be no heaven here
no trial, no escape; no release

bodies invaded by the tube
through which flows the porridge
of the heartland, nourishing
bread basket of the world

forced to live
lest he die;
mustn’t embarrass the Emperor
or terrorize the netherworld
Cuándo saldré de Cuba?

No crime equals barbed wire
or the loss of young erring sons
who used to play in the yard
but wandered away to guard the tropics;
the cancer in the body America.