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Authors: Margarita Engle
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        The Names of the Flowers
        1850â51
Rosa
Some people call me a child-witch,
but Iâm just a girl who likes to watch
the hands of the women
as they gather wild herbs and flowers
to heal the sick.
I am learning the names of the cures
and how much to use,
and which part of the plant,
petal or stem, root, leaf, pollen, nectar.
Sometimes I feel like a bee making honeyâ
a bee, feared by all, even though the wild bees
of these mountains in Cuba
are stingless, harmless, the source
of nothing but sweet, golden food.
Rosa
We call them wolves,
but theyâre just wild dogs,
howling mournfullyâ
lonely runaways,
like
cimarrones,
the runaway slaves who survive
in deep forest, in caves of sparkling crystal
hidden behind waterfalls,
and in secret villages
protected by magic
protected by wordsâ
tales of guardian angels,
mermaids, witches,
giants, ghosts.
Rosa
When the slavehunter brings back
runaways he captures,
he receives seventeen silver
pesos
per
cimarrón,
unless the runaway is dead.
Four
pesos
is the price of an ear,
shown as proof that the runaway slave
died fighting, resisting capture.
The sick and injured
are brought to us, to the women,
for healing.
When a runaway is well again,
he will either choose to go back to work
in the coffee groves and sugarcane fields,
or run away again
secretly, silently, alone.
Lieutenant Death
My father keeps a diary.
It is required
by the Holy Brotherhood of Planters,
who hire him to catch runaway slaves.
I watch my father write the numbers
and nicknames of slaves he captures.
He does not know their real names.
When the girl-witch heals a wounded runaway,
the
cimarrón
is punished, and sent back to work.
Even then, many run away again,
or kill themselves.
But then my father chops each body
into four pieces, and locks each piece in a cage,
and hangs the four cages on four branches
of the same tree.
That way, my father tells me, the other slaves
will be afraid to kill themselves.
He says they believe
a chopped, caged spirit cannot fly away
to a better place.
Rosa
I love the sounds
of the jungle at night.
When the barracoon
where we sleep
has been locked,
I hear the music
of crickets, tree frogs, owls,
and the whir of wings
as night birds fly,
and the song of
un sinsonte,
a Cuban mockingbird,
the magical creature
who knows how to sing
many songs all at once,
sad and happy,
captive and freeâ¦
songs that help me sleep
without nightmares,
without dreams.
Rosa
The names of the villages where runaways hide
are
Mira-Cielo,
Look-at-the-Sky
and
Silencio,
Silence
Soledad,
Loneliness
La Bruja,
The Witchâ¦.
I watch the slavehunter as he writes his numbers,
while his son,
the boy we secretly call Lieutenant Death,
helps him make up big lies.
The slavehunter and his boy agree to exaggerate,
in order to make their work
sound more challenging,
so they will seem like heroes
who fight against armies with guns,
instead of just a few frightened, feverish, hungry,
escaped slaves,
armed only with wooden spears,
and secret hopes.
Lieutenant Death
When I call the little witch
a witch-girl, my father corrects meâ
Just little witch is enough, he says, donât add girl,
or sheâll think sheâs human, like us.
A pile of ears sits on the ground,
waiting to be counted.
This boy has a wound,
my father tells the witch.
Heal him.
The little witch stares at my arm, torn by wolves,
and I grin,
not because I have to be healed by a slave-witch,
but because it is comforting to know
that wild dogs
can be called wolves,
to make them sound
more dangerous,
making me seem
truly brave.
Rosa
The slavehunter and his son
both stay away during the rains,
which last six months, from May
through October.
In November he returns with his boy,
whose scars have faded.
This
Â
        The Names of the Flowers
        1850â51
Rosa
Some people call me a child-witch,
but Iâm just a girl who likes to watch
the hands of the women
as they gather wild herbs and flowers
to heal the sick.
I am learning the names of the cures
and how much to use,
and which part of the plant,
petal or stem, root, leaf, pollen, nectar.
Sometimes I feel like a bee making honeyâ
a bee, feared by all, even though the wild bees
of these mountains in Cuba
are stingless, harmless, the source
of nothing but sweet, golden food.
Rosa
We call them wolves,
but theyâre just wild dogs,
howling mournfullyâ
lonely runaways,
like
cimarrones,
the runaway slaves who survive
in deep forest, in caves of sparkling crystal
hidden behind waterfalls,
and in secret villages
protected by magic
protected by wordsâ
tales of guardian angels,
mermaids, witches,
giants, ghosts.
Rosa
When the slavehunter brings back
runaways he captures,
he receives seventeen silver
pesos
per
cimarrón,
unless the runaway is dead.
Four
pesos
is the price of an ear,
shown as proof that the runaway slave
died fighting, resisting capture.
The sick and injured
are brought to us, to the women,
for healing.
When a runaway is well again,
he will either choose to go back to work
in the coffee groves and sugarcane fields,
or run away again
secretly, silently, alone.
Lieutenant Death
My father keeps a diary.
It is required
by the Holy Brotherhood of Planters,
who hire him to catch runaway slaves.
I watch my father write the numbers
and nicknames of slaves he captures.
He does not know their real names.
When the girl-witch heals a wounded runaway,
the
cimarrón
is punished, and sent back to work.
Even then, many run away again,
or kill themselves.
But then my father chops each body
into four pieces, and locks each piece in a cage,
and hangs the four cages on four branches
of the same tree.
That way, my father tells me, the other slaves
will be afraid to kill themselves.
He says they believe
a chopped, caged spirit cannot fly away
to a better place.
Rosa
I love the sounds
of the jungle at night.
When the barracoon
where we sleep
has been locked,
I hear the music
of crickets, tree frogs, owls,
and the whir of wings
as night birds fly,
and the song of
un sinsonte,
a Cuban mockingbird,
the magical creature
who knows how to sing
many songs all at once,
sad and happy,
captive and freeâ¦
songs that help me sleep
without nightmares,
without dreams.
Rosa
The names of the villages where runaways hide
are
Mira-Cielo,
Look-at-the-Sky
and
Silencio,
Silence
Soledad,
Loneliness
La Bruja,
The Witchâ¦.
I watch the slavehunter as he writes his numbers,
while his son,
the boy we secretly call Lieutenant Death,
helps him make up big lies.
The slavehunter and his boy agree to exaggerate,
in order to make their work
sound more challenging,
so they will seem like heroes
who fight against armies with guns,
instead of just a few frightened, feverish, hungry,
escaped slaves,
armed only with wooden spears,
and secret hopes.
Lieutenant Death
When I call the little witch
a witch-girl, my father corrects meâ
Just little witch is enough, he says, donât add girl,
or sheâll think sheâs human, like us.
A pile of ears sits on the ground,
waiting to be counted.
This boy has a wound,
my father tells the witch.
Heal him.
The little witch stares at my arm, torn by wolves,
and I grin,
not because I have to be healed by a slave-witch,
but because it is comforting to know
that wild dogs
can be called wolves,
to make them sound
more dangerous,
making me seem
truly brave.
Rosa
The slavehunter and his son
both stay away during the rains,
which last six months, from May
through October.
In November he returns with his boy,
whose scars have faded.
This
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