Clara (Dallas, Texas)

Borders of Understanding

Cuba, your name sits heavy in their mouths,

A government, a headline, a blame.

But you are also my abuela’s flan,

My abuelo’s stories of the Malecón,

The rhythm of salsa under dim lights.

I walk these Dallas streets as Cuban, as American,

Both, neither, whole.

Will they ever see us as more than borders?