Old Batista glows
in his own moonlight— 

we do not kiss and tell
of the Magpie. We are not
liberators; the people
liberate themselves. 

Martí winces at our slant
of light. Unlike us,
he dies with his face
toward the sun. We rather feign
conceit at the tip of our cold, steel
revolver, brush our teeth
with the barrel and cleanse
our body in another’s red fall— 

encouraging our sons
to martyrdom, but forget to give
ourselves. Tip our straw chairs,
fill our lungs with stale cigars,
our kidneys with fermented grapes,
sweet branch of cane— 

further preserving our stolen
identity. 

We are the indigenous.
The hungry.
The mestizzo.
The mulatto. 

We are Ariel.