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annette Jan 24
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
annette Jun 2018
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.
when they ask me to write about myself i can only give them this. even i do not understand why images like these appear when i think about myself. i am a pisces with a cancer moon so maybe that is why i tend to feel too much.
annette Jan 2018
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.
un producto de una familia mexicana que vino a un país lejano por un futuro.
annette Dec 2017
¡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.
mi padre me llevo a conocer el hermanito. el era un curandero en el cerro y este hombre me curo. me quito el mal aire pero no supo que mi padre era el fantasma que llevaba adentro de mi. ya lo perdone.
annette Dec 2017
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 ****
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.
es el color que mi mama ve cuando piensa en el amor.
annette Nov 2017
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.
calienta un te de canela
es bueno para el frio.
annette Nov 2017
a plethora of oaks
timelessly alive.
our names are carved
on every single one.

a symbol of us.
es mas eterno que nosotros.
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