Irina Rozovsky- Island in my mind

von

I first came to Havana in July when it was impossibly hot and even the sea was sweating. To catch my
breath, I’d lean against the wrinkled walls of tired buildings and leave on each a dripping imprint. The
heat was ruthless. It caused electrical outages and in the evenings the city slipped into thick blackness.
This troubled only the gringo visitors—everyone else could see in the dark. They sat abuzz on
the boardwalk cradling bottles of rum and throwing the empties to the waves that crashed on the
rocks below. “It’s called dogs’ teeth” Bonco told me—those glass shards among the rocks when you’re
swimming the next morning that scratch and make your feet bleed. But the boys and young guys hurl
themselves into the water anyway, always diving like it’s the last time.
I thought of this underwater belt of barbed glass tight around the island, growing sharper with each
night’s party—all those bottles flickering through the hot night air like firecracker signals that do not
reach other shores. Then the next morning those boys who laugh and dive, and kick up for air with feet
that have the tough soles of old men.
¡Viva Libre! they paint on all the walls here.
I.R.
Boston 2015