The foreman takes a long slow drag
filling his mouth
smoke filling his head
prayers climb the ladder of his cigar smoke
He sits in a tall chair reading novellas to women who sit and roll cigars
his cigar burns red
Cuba burns in her jungles
her beds are full of fire
her women forged in furnaces
The women’s fingers are golden from the tobacco leaves
hands and fingers moving like sudden storms across the Caribbean
An old man told me,
“You want a girl who works in a cigar factory, Cuba burns
upon their breasts.”
Flames rising and falling in breaths
sweat like rain falling into lush valleys
their dresses parted
legs brown like earth reaching out
against blue tile floors
The storms move closer
a veil covers Cuba
and only the man can be heard reading.
I’ve known about readers in the cigar factories for a long time. Glad you have written a poem about it.