The Surrender Tree Read Online Free PDF Page A

of bitter orange trees,
    and I treat the sores of smallpox
    with the juice of boiled yams.

    I use the perfumed leaves
    of bay rum trees
    to mask the scent
    of death.
    José

    General Máximo Gómez, the Fox,
    asks Rosa to choose twelve trustworthy men
    who can help us build a bigger hospital,
    so sturdy and so well-hidden
    that it will never be found
    or attacked.

    My wife says two trustworthy men
    will be enough.

    She tells the Fox that she is strong.
    She wants to help chop the wood
    for building our new home.
    Silvia

    Concentrate. Reconcentrate.
    Mass, cluster, bunch, and heap.
    Weyler’s camp makes my arms and legs
    so skinny that even my mind feels hungry.
    Concentrate. Reconcentrate.
    Plan, pay attention, focus, think.
    I am alone now. My brothers
    are with my mother.
    The oxcart comes and goes.

    The Brother of Charity and Faith
    sees my hopelessness.
    He lets me ride with him,
    hiding in the oxcart.
    I am leaving.
    Where will I go?
    Silvia

    The wagon creaks,
    wheels sing…
    the night is moonless,
    my body feels ancient,
    my mind feels new.

    The driver turns and smiles.
    He hands me his cigar, a blinking light.
    He shows me how to pretend
    that I am a firefly.

    He points to a hole in the fence,
    puts his finger to his lips,
    then draws a map in the sky—
    a picture of the way
    to find Rosa.
    Silvia

    I dance through the hole in my fenced life,
    moving the make-believe firefly with my hand,
    not my mouth, because I am afraid I would not
    be able to stop coughing.

    The tiny light rises, dips, flits,
    just a foul-scented cigar
    pretending to fly,
    but it carries a memory
    of the oxcart driver’s hand,
    showing me how to find the woman
    who once saved my grandma’s life.

    Rosa’s cave is the only place I long to be
    now that my family is in heaven.
    Silvia

    Tree frogs, screech owls, the dancing leaves
    of feathery ferns, the fragrant petals
    of wild orchids.

    Night wings, crickets,
    imagining secrets,
    wondering which flowers
    might save a life,
    and which could be dangerous,
    if I don’t learn quickly, if I feed a patient
    just a little too much…

    Will Rosa teach me?
    Is Rosa real, or just one more
    of those comforting tales
    the old folks tell
    at bedtime?
    Silvia

    Moonless thunder, silent lightning, the tracks
    of mountain ponies.

    Mambí
birdcalls, a stream, tall reeds, the song
    of a waterfall, my own tumbling, exhausted,
    singing wild hopes.

    A trail, more hoofprints, a woman in blue
    with long, loose black hair just like my own.

    The whistle of a Canary Islander,
    speaking the secret language of Silbo.

    My bare, bony feet running, following,
    racing toward Rosa….
    José

    All night I stand guard, singing silently
    inside my mind, to keep myself awake.

    In daylight I sleep, while others watch.
    A whistle reaches into my dream…

    the face of a pale, skeletal child,
    two eyes, deep green pools
    of fear….
    Silvia

    Does the old man in the forest
    know that he sings in his sleep?

    I stare, he stares,
    then we both smile.
    Rosa, I hear myself chant the name
    over and over,
    begging for a flower-woman
    who will teach me how to save lives.

    I tell the old man that I already know
    the names of the blossoms, all I need is a chance
    to learn their magic.

    With a sigh, he says,
    Yes of course, one more child
    is always welcome,
    follow me….
    Rosa

    The new girl is so thin and pale
    that I cannot let her help me
    until she has learned
    how to heal herself.

    I make her eat, sleep, rest.
    She resists.

    I see a story in her eyes.
    She thinks she has no right to eat
    while so many others starve.
    Silvia

    Rosa is a bully.
    I thought she would be sweet and kind,
    but she forces me to sip my soup,
    and she stitches a cut on my forehead,
    just a scratch from a thorn in the forest,
    but she studies it the way I studied the forts
    at the camp, with the holes for guns
    that look like eyes.

    The needle hurts, the thread itches.
    Maybe I don’t want to