“In Cuba” [originally appeared in Chicago Review issue 56: 2/3 - Autumn 2011] He went back to a bed Even more terrible than the loyal eyes Of a dog about to be euthanized. –Frederick Seidel My wife has died in the hotel. Her body was unable to support the massive thread count. The men came in, investigated and went out. She was always particular about thread counts. She took it up with the concierge. Meanwhile, I would study the shape of all the poor people’s skulls. All I can remember now is the fact that she died. We went to Cuba, to the hotel, where I am now. After the men came in, I asked, Why was I not killed? The men walked out. I went to the veranda, where I watched a bevy of odd sparrows alight. The sparrows were stone-washed denim, perfectly matching the sky. The city shone in the hazy light. The air smelled of the water supply, and the land and the hills. The maid came in. I did not know what she would do with my deceased wife. Was she sleeping? she asked.