Cha Cha Cha

“Guantanamera…” (Cha, cha, cha.) “Guantanamera…” (Cha, cha, cha.)

I keep thinking about a woman dancing down the street, wild and free. (Step, step, step.)

She moves forward three and then back three. This repeats over and over. (Step, step, step.)

Her hips move with exaggeration, keeping time with the beat.

She changes her pattern by sliding left three and then sliding back right. This too repeats.

Seamlessly she returns to her previous motion, swinging her hips forward three and then back three again.

If her forward strides are longer than her backward strides,

She can dance slowly and sensually down the street.

The eyes of men follow her, though none dare interrupt her.

They know she will cue them when she is ready.

This music is running through my head and ears.

I let it go and it keeps coming back to me.

I can see myself in this woman. I was born in Guantanamo Bay.

My hips are getting older now. I think this syncopated motion could

Warm them up and do them good. The Caribbean is calling out my name.

“Guantanamera …” (Cha, cha, cha.)