in the grandiose world
of my fish heart
you are the love of my life
the mole on your forehead
hidden by your shabby hair
romanticized
to sunday morning breakfasts
and japanese jazz
and you treating me to sweets
even with your sour tongue
and smoking in our balcony
our
oh, my silly self
if you ever see this
please ignore me
the real you
resides
in my glass cup
half-full
thirst quenched
Mar 21, 2019
Mar 21, 2019 at 1:33 PM UTC
it is a collection of thoughts
the spilling of my guts
ink stains made from my blood
paper made from my skin
3 holes on each sheet made with my teeth
bound together with my hair
a complete notebook made from scratch
this is a collection of my thoughts
made so personally
everything i am
written in poetic language
it is me
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 9:41 PM UTC
there is a basin filled with nothing
or so they say.
yet at night when the moon is beginning to glow
water begins to show.
the moon's magnetic power causes it to seep out
from under the earth.
worms that once lived underground
begin to drown.
and then color-covered fish begin to come forth.
they feed.
a girl approaches.
she has hair so long
it could float all the way to the ocean.
she sinks her knees into the earth's damp soil,
as if she were a pastor on a sunday morning,
and begins to hum a soulful tune.
the water glistens like stage lights,
the dead worms wiggle a dance,
and the fish soon follow.
a spectacular performance.
she gives a sorrowful smile at the moon.
a fishing net soon interrupts the artists.
she will be fed for time without end.
she gives thanks.
Jun 25, 2018
Jun 25, 2018 at 12:27 AM UTC
i am my grandmother’s small and plump tears
when she thinks of her pueblo.
i am my mother’s broken english
as she greets the cashier.
i am my sister’s abandoned dreams,
her acceptance letter is etched into my palm.
i am my brother’s path to citizenship
along with all the photographic evidence.
i am my brother in law’s laughter
when he speaks to the nephew he has never met.
i am the ever constant fear
of being denied a home.
i am the secrets carried on backs
through miles and miles of desert.
i am the pan dulce on sunday mornings.
i am the mole and carnitas at birthday parties.
i am the thick hair on arms.
i am the first bite of a burger king hamburger
after years of poverty.
i am the first item of clothing bought at a kmart
after years of patching up old clothes.
so how dare you think less of me?
you do not know what i carry.
all this pain.
all this joy.
all this strength.
i am chicana.
the bridge between two worlds.
i will not be burned down.
Jan 10, 2018
Jan 10, 2018 at 4:22 PM UTC
¡curandero!
¡sobandero!
¡hermano!
¡brujo!
i feel my stomach churn
when i mention home!
i cannot sleep at night!
¡curandero!
please fix me!
¡ay dios mío!
¡niña tu tienes mal aire!
you are a sick child!
too young to carry
so many ghosts!
you must follow my instructions clearly.
¡sobate con un huevo!
rub a cold raw egg all over your body!
make sure you rub the cold surface on your forehead!
it cleanses your mind!
then rub it down your back
to fix that spine!
it will straighten you up!
¡compra una vela blanca!
make sure to light your white candle
at six in the morning and six in the evening.
these are the times when
the sun caresses it’s lips to the horizon.
a beginning and end so mystical
that even ghosts pause to witness the view.
these are the moments where you must
ignite them away.
you must also pray
my child.
pray to whatever divine force
you believe in.
but curandero the only divine force i know
is myself.
how can i heal if i alone am the destroyer?
mija,
there exists no such thing.
you alone are you.
to heal you must destroy.
to destroy you must heal.
escúchame,
you are divine.
the ghosts you keep are not friends.
scare them away.
show them your power.
come see me again,
but when you return,
you will be new.
with the ways of el curandero
you will thrive in
your own cosmos.
Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
my mother sees purple
because purple lives on her flesh.
she has stains
from shoulders down.
they scatter across her back
like pressed grapes.
the juice squeezed out of them
to create a rich man’s wine.
they wrap around her legs
like grape vines.
pulling her closer to the ground
with each step.
she hides them.
when men approach her
she says
“quiero que me ames.
my body has rejected me
and even in the womb
i was mutating.”
the men love her face.
she is a woman who does not age.
they say to her
“tu eres morada.
to love yourself you must
accept the color.”
so they have all added
new shades of purple
to her body.
i think that is why
my favorite eyeshadow color
is purple.
Dec 6, 2017
Dec 6, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
my grandmother
used to stand over an open flame
every cold morning.
she would fan the fire
allowing it to breath.
then she would boil the water
for the cinnamon tea.
this ritual was for
all the men in her life.
just so they could awaken
to the smell of spice and
ignited flesh.
at least she kept warm.
strong men like to drink cinnamon tea.
they like to mix their coffee into it
every morning.
it's a beverage with double the damage.
they also enjoy dipping their tongue
in the boiling drink
so they can
sample the taste
of a woman’s burning.
my grandmother
still makes her
te de canela
every morning.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 12:30 PM UTC
a plethora of oaks
timelessly alive.
our names are carved
on every single one.
a symbol of us.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 3:02 PM UTC
even your mother is afraid of speaking your name.
she looks at her shaking hands,
tears on her eye ducts,
lips barley parted,
and feels.
you never quite came back.
the paintings of you and her
can never describe
the burn she feels on her tongue
when she is forced to call
for you.
you are the lullaby
she sings every night,
while doused in witch hazel.
how silly it is
that even though she is
the giver of life,
she yearns for it
at every mention
of your absence.
Nov 14, 2017
Nov 14, 2017 at 11:39 AM UTC
there is a woman who knows more about loss
than she does of forgiveness.
she bathes every evening in warm water and salt
because she once saw el curandero prepare a bath
for the man who screamed every night
after he met the black-haired devil.
the mixture is suppose to heal.
she brushes her long thick black hair
with a wide-toothed comb.
it reminds her of the way he pulled her hair
when she would try to leave him.
it always made her come back
for more.
she rubs baby oil on her skin while droplets of water
are still running down her body.
they swerve around her chest,
clash near her bellybutton,
and sneak in between her thighs.
but even with all the salt baths and baby oil
the skin on her knees is still ashy
and dark.
she wonders if it is from kneeling too much as a child.
when she would kneel with her sister at church
rezando for the return of their fathers.
each a man who left their mother in pedazos.
they were actually praying for their mother.
or if it was from the holy act of making love.
when she would get down on her knees for him.
praying to receive more.
having his hands pull her hair,
push her closer to him,
to take him all in.
she finds herself praying for the return of her loss rather than for forgiveness every night before sleep.
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 1:25 PM UTC