On an island, there were two parties.
One preached independence and the other, subservience.
Both were pretty corrupt.

One day, the Poet was arrested.
He had written a poem titled “Fable”
about Napoleon’s fat fingers

then made love to his wife.
You won’t see me for a while, he said.
What about me? his wife said.

Revolution calls, the Poet said.
The next month, the Poet was beaten, tried,
and shot. The Wife,

after pleading
to no avail, gathered all the Poet’s works.
She brought them to the street

to burn. One page. Then another.
Then another. Each day
more pages disappeared,

her usual location
became the gathering spot
where intellectuals exchanged gazes

over revolution. One day,
they stormed the palace
where leaders of the two parties met

and hanged them in the plaza.
They cheered for the whole night.
On the second day, the Wife

was out again, burning.
What are you doing? a young man asked.
I still hate him, the Wife said.

This is all I know
about the revolution. Later,
in the Freedom Palace

built by the new president
for revolutionaries,
I asked the young man—

my grandpa—
what did you do to the Wife,
and grandpa said Nonsense

and went into the kitchen
to his own wife.
They lived for another ten years

and to this day, I still remember
my grandpa frowning,
and silence from my grandma,

who smiled
and served me chicken wings.