Wishing on a Medianoche


So now, thanks to technology, a mystery has been solved:

Why I love washing down medianoches with mojitos,

Feel rumba “riddims” from Dixie queen bottom to th-th-thonged toes,

Find my crinkly hair ambivalent as to laying down in winter —

Or frizzing up like dandelion seed head under blankets of summer funk —

And have surrendered to bodacious bounty of all that junk in my trunk.


Still, how could I not detect genetic treasures herein:

Dulce de leche skin and, from the sin of heavy petting, pendulous breasts

Alluring to bolero-humming lips thirsty for two liters of condensed milk

That reveal traces of Bustelo overdoses (ayyy, midnight neuroses)

Because Bobby/José/Antonio … papi chulo didn’t booty-call (yo!)

When he was supposed-ta?


Despite an innate fixation on Desi Arnaz’s wild-eyed trances during “Babalú,”

And the end of an embargo, I’m prohibited from visiting an ancestral homeland

Lest some cursed, authenticated wood pulp product prove beyond a DNA doubt

That I’ve got living, breathing and cigar-growing and -rolling clan

All up in the sun-drenched hinterlands where Bisabuela Minerva’s


Chewed on sugarcane and made it rain for those with wandering hands.


Here in this existentially turbulent stratosphere, I’m scowling by the hour,

Suffering the distance of cultural affinity to an isle that’s a ferry hop from Miami

Due to not matching one of twelve “qualifying” categories (puhhhleeeze!)

Assigned by dumb a$$es paving roads of gold for capitalistic masses,

When all I wish to do in Afro-Cuba — accessible only by blood (Pop’s) and in lucid dreams —

Is run toward rooted kin’s abrazos, stealing Changó’s thunder with rapturous Spanglish screams.



“Wishing on a Medianoche” © 2016 Chantale Rêve

All Rights Reserved




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