my aunt on dauphine street

during visits, we drink our coffee quickly,
taste the revolution on our tongues because
she does not believe in microwaves, but

in che guevara. when she mixes dough
for torticas de moron, cuba gets stuck
between her fingernails and I try to count

how many half-moons it’s been since she’s
seen her husband. he is the gibbous kind
of lover, fading before he swings around

full-face, waning and waxing the mustache
my aunt didn’t watch him grow. i worry
about her reaching higher ground because

the crescent city can’t always be a cradle.
its levees will sag one day and the water
will rise again as my aunt sings of havana.