Hasta Que Se Seque el Malecón

On our way home after the storm,

we saw the windy sea,

and we knew to try to outrun the waves.

 

We pulled our motorcycles over,

left them on the opposite side

of the Malecón.

 

We dashed across the wet street

when only the sky was in its foamy reflection

and it was clear of speeding taxis.

 

The waves rose behind the wall.

Our eyes focused on one building

up like a small tsunami.

 

We waited until the last possible second,

holding our breaths,

until we had to flee from the crashing water.

 

The streets were empty,

but our hearts were as full as

the waves that drenched our clothes.

 

Time was flying away from us in Cuba.

I was hyper-aware of it when the old white taxi left behind its diesel fumes,

driving away from our laughter.

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