Classic Poem

Sometimes you feel
alone within your ribs and alone
among people, tenderness having sunk
to the bottom of your pores. Find a peaceful book,
a magazine, a new love, undress
it as you'd break a loaf,
and it will flow over your skin absorbing light,
the words of a luminous voice,
a stranger's and, nevertheless, your own

Remember the poem you intended to write
between bitter swigs, when
Fidel said: Death is pain-
fully certain. And you left it half-written
with your bitter convictions.
Today you pick it up
like a hot glass that burns, put it to your lips
and your heart leaps out. And through that wound, it
bleeds against the wind
polluted with lies. When you are drained of the salt
and oil that fill you, be mindful that love
proceeds leaving tracks, and that what is needed
is that you step forward, as fast as you can,
to learn, at least, to write,
just as you learned in the beginning,
reciting like this, pausing to weep
if you have to: A,
as in act of affection; B,
as in battle or banner; C,
as in commander or compañero ,
and in the ancient language of heroes: Ch,
as in Che And so forth.