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In a room where Cuban
immigrants once stood in line
to trade a Democratic vote
for citizenship, I looked
for liberation when you passed
behind me so close I could
feel your heartbeat under
my shoulder blade,
your linen skirt curved
past the ebony coffee table
into the hall of the restored building.
Along the walls hung
stories of hope and independence.
We heard feet shuffle under the door
over the crackling of the faucet.
Like refugees riding the crest
of a secret wave for autonomy
we left only your handprint
on the wall.