Vol. 73/No. 44      November 16, 2009

Guerrero wrote the poem to supporters of the five around the world while waiting for his resentencing hearing October 13 in Miami. He had been serving life plus 10 years. His sentence was reduced to 21 years and 10 months. Guerrero could be eligible for parole in 7 years. Two others, Ramon Labañino and Fernando González, are scheduled to be resentenced on December 8.

Known around the world as the Cuban Five, the men were in the United States to collect information for the Cuban government about counterrevolutionary groups based in South Florida that have carried out armed attacks against Cuba with Washington’s complicity. The five were arrested by the FBI in 1998, convicted in a 2001 frame-up trial, and handed draconian sentences ranging from 15 years to a double-life term.

In 2008 a three-judge panel of a federal court upheld their convictions but ruled that the sentences of three of them were excessive.
 

From the hole

I
Miami is before my eyes. I can’t sleep.
An obstinate verse bounces
between the luxury of a skyscraper
and the tragedy of a broken shower.

Through the window I see the rising sun
to light the green tinted windows,
in every direction people, with whom
I make an imaginary world, walk.

The Royal Caribbean cruises,
the McDonald’s, the school, the banks,
the homeless rummaging through the trash,
the vendor under the umbrella
still there and again I look at them
from the “hole,” that is, “from my altitude.”

II
It is called Miami’s Down Town,
a mass of steel, concrete, and glasses.
During the day an authentic ant’s nest.
During the night a dangerous and empty place.

Its each time highest buildings
are symbols of power and opulence:
banks with millionaire transactions,
houses with few tenants.

In the cosmetic urbanization
there are parking lots for countless cars.
and I do not know how to say it in verse
but what captures more my attention
is to see that the public transportation
basically is used by the black people.

III
Once again orange jumper.
Once again solitude between bricks.
Once again broken mattress without pillow.
Once again big noise in the hall.

Once again to change clothes once a week.
Once again tiny yellow pencil.
One again by a miracle a phone call.
Once again to walk without destiny.
Once again a cage to “recreate.”

This time even they don’t give coffee.
Once again dirty floor, cold shower …
Once again a “cop-out” to complain,
and, of course, they don’t answer once again.
Once again “hole” and once again “poetry.”

Antonio Guerrero