My Mother’s Trousseau: Havana, 1960

She stood in the shoe store holding the purse,
the first purchase of the trip.
“This model is very popular,” the salesman said.
“Princess Grace was photographed
covering her pregnancy with one like this.
Her highness held it in front of her bulging belly like so
—The Kelly Bag.It’s all the rave in Paris.”

She examined the bag,
patent leather,
big and boxy, a trapezoid
with a simple strip handle forming a half circle.

The building shuddered.
The salesman leaped in the air
along with a pair of light brown pumps
that skipped two spaces from its table display
like a chip over a checkerboard.
She looked down at the shards of glass at her feet,
and up at the store window,
or the gap where the window had been.


She rode a bus back home.
Her mother would worry
once she heard about the bombing at the bay.
No one claimed responsibility
—not the revolucionarios,
not the Yankees,
not even the batisteros.
But they were all responsible.


The bus was plodding down the Central Highway
when she saw it from the window:
an overloaded truck spilling its cargo onto the asphalt.
Chunks of meat.
Arms, legs, hands,
and sundry parts she could not name.


She cried softly, unable to look away
As she clutched the Kelly Bag,
all the rave in Paris.