Tio Chicho’s own brand of cure,
for his faltering eye-sight, a squirt
of lemon or lime, honey
for the tonsils, a couple of raw eggs
in a shot glass with Cinzano
vermouth, some garlic rubbed
under the nose; for hangovers, colds,
arthritis, swollen glands, pomadas
made with herbs like yerba buena,
melted chicken fat with a pinch of salt
for sort throats… He knew them all,
having picked them up from friends,
family, books. The only one
he didn’t have a cure for was lo azul,
as he called that which literally means
the blues of exile, that he cured with wine,
lots of it, and when he ran out of wine
with beer, lots of it, and then sleep,
for in sleep he found himself back home
in Havana, a young man in the city he loved,
about to go out to the streets where possibilities
always awaited, the world so sunny, small,
most certainly knowable, attainable, salud.
Originally published in Cider Press Review, Volume 1.
