In autumn, I go to Cuba with Gregory Peck. 
We are pieces of a collage, he and I, glued on 
a mismatched timeline, and though
I am beyond childhood,
he calls me Scout.

At dawn, we eat pan tostado with café con leche. 
Sometimes we ride the bus; sometimes we walk.
 In between, we perform scenes
from Chekhov for spare change. Gregory drifts 
in and out of roles seamlessly, but my hair
keeps tangling between characters.
First, I’m Anya, then, it’s 1962. I’m under
a desk, praying, while the teacher assures us
it will do no good. “Cuba,” she says. “Russia.”

Later, Gregory and I sit in the park among mango trees. 
We discuss impracticalities —
not looking both ways before crossing
the present, no matter how empty
the avenues at past and future seem; 
how, as always, we are here
(“Wherever here is. You tell me,” winks Gregory)
in a grace period.
I am always grateful
for grace, with its blue iridescence,
rare as the butterflies flying through Guantanamo.

At the prison gates,
Gregory was Atticus, beige-suited in a sea 
of military uniforms. I was Boo, reclusive 
but watching, waiting for my cue. Once,
I thought I wanted a holiday in Rome,
a gelato, a ride on a motorbike.
That was a long time ago
on another timeline, possibly not
even mine.