Poetry | July 09, 2026

​​​​​On the Fortieth Anniversary of Her Death, Ana Mendieta Brings the House Down at Haydee’s Restaurant 

The flattened Jose Cuervo boxes make for a poor stage, but at the back of the bar, Ana holds the whole of El Malecón in her mouth. If she spoke, you’d hear the crash of street vendors and seashore, but instead, she’s belting Buena Vista Social Club like it could make a heart start beating again. It’s September. Summer’s busy making its mess. The room lacquered with glitter and sweat, and above it all, Ana’s hair, Ana’s laugh, Ana crowning herself queen of karaoke, like she didn’t just dig herself out of six feet of casket and wet earth. So alive, you could forget it ever happened. That night when she went out the window. When she married the New York City soil. The union that happens when you hit bottom ​​thirty-four floors deep. At the end of her set, Ana stumbles into the stickered bathroom, her body wilting like ​​​​one long orchid: solitary. Chosen. There are things I want to ask her, though I know the answers. After all, my father did what he did, and I was born. Andre did what he did, and Ana died. But sometimes, we have to hear it, how the truth has its own taste. Listen, she slurs. Next time, I’m coming back as a flock of birds.