Lolo Poem by Virgil Suárez

We stood across on the other side of the street
in Havana the day they came to take Lolo away.
Two men brought him out of the house. Wild-eyed,
he looked across at us. Red marks etched on his chest
and stomach, blood dried on his face. This was the last
time any of us saw him in the neighbohood. Our
parents helped spread the rumors: Lolo died later
at the hands of the rufian policemen, hung from his
cell. Or maybe he was taken to Masorra, the insane
asylum not too far from the barrio. Or tortured
at El Morro Prison. Who knew the truth?
A year earlier his wife and daughter packed and left.
Lolo spent the rest of his days drunk inside the house.
Us kids did nothing but challenge him to come out.
We threw rocks at the roof the corrugated tin shack
in his backyard. We dared each other to break in
and steal his tools, what was left of them. On stormy
afternoons we flung pebbles at his windows, broke
a pane or two, but he wouldn't come out. We knew
he was there because of the screaming we heard
especially when the blackouts started in our street.
We stood across the street and howled back,
we started to howl the day the police came to take
him away. We howled and ran like a pack of dogs
behind the jeep, the dust going into our eyes and mouths.
A year after they took him and he didn't come back,
lightning hit the house and set it on fire, a terrible
sign, our parents said. We all learned to read these signs.
We dropped to our knees, bent, put our ears
to the charred earth and listened for instructions
on how not to become ghosts in our own lives.