Those Prostitutes in Cuba

by Mary O’Donnell

          for J S

They were like two kittens, he said,
snuggling up to him,
they were fun and they liked him.

I thought — against my own sex — how
enviable his freedom to fall in
with such company, then breakfast

with them afterwards, heartily, admiring
their health, their strong teeth, that
vitality. It could never happen

to a woman my age, two tiger men
who would not wound, the three of us
so human in a dusky room, sunlight

stealing through the slats in colours
from Matisse, the riotous world
within and without.