Translated by Keith Ellis
Though he really wanted to hurl you into the Mississippi,
that cannibal in deceptive uniform
quietly burned his knee
on your dying throat.
The smoke rising from your flesh climbs to the tearful sky.
Skipping between the flowers, the air you exhale
pursues the cannibal’s ghost until it bites
his bloody fang.
And, indomitable, you give hope, on the wet asphalt,
under the quiet shade of an apple tree
in Minneapolis,
where we will place, for you,
this bright, this cherished
dark-red rose of ours,
in your memory.
Havana, June 4, 2020