iloveyou,
you say, tangling up the three words in one breath.
i love you more, i tell you.
no, iloveyoumore, you say.
i love you more than bees love flowers, i say,
and you tell me that bees love pollen
and that youlovememore.
but i love you,
more than bees love flowers and yes, pollen
and i love you more than birds love to sing
more than wishes love stars
more than dreams love sleep
i love you more
than grass loves rain
and rain loves the earth
and the earth loves trees
and the trees love the wind.
i love you more
than sunflowers love sun,
more than the sun loves the sky,
more than the sky loves blue,
more than blue loves the sea.
i love you
ilove you
iloveyou like youloveme.

i want everything ahead of me
one day to be behind me
am i asking for too much?
if so, then—
i don’t want to leave
having not seen every beautiful thing
let me see
the jacaranda
the Maine sky one more time
the bougainvillea my mother planted for me bloom violet
i want my feet to know their home
i want fear to become a stranger
am i still asking for too much?
if so, then—
i do not want to wonder whether i was loved
i want the poems i leave behind
(my life)
to mean something
every day i have left
let me soak it in gratitude
give me more words than what i can say
more stars than what i can see
if i cannot ask for more time
more heartbeats
more life
give me then
more sun
more rain
more laughter
more poetry
more possibilities
is this still too much?
give me then
just more
let me say these words
i am full (of life) i cannot have anymore

sometimes it rains,
and if you’re quiet,
you can hear the trees give thanks.
sometimes the children laugh,
and everything is yellow.
sometimes a friend writes you a poem,
sometimes you wake up and there is already coffee waiting for you,
& the words ‘thank you’
are the first to touch your lips.
this is how joy shows up in the heart,
an unexpected guest,
but welcome nonetheless.

poems are raining down from the ceiling.
poems are crawling in from the windows.
the garden is blooming poems.
it is also a poem.
this house is mostly poems.
the yellow dog in the yellow house is barking poems.
the girl who lives down the street is a poem
and she speaks to the neighbor in poems.
me, watching them from my window, is a poem
and all the words i want to tell them are made of poems.
her brother rides a bicycle poem
and the laughter he leaves behind is a poem.
the man who walks by smiles a poem.
more children come, dressed in poems
and they begin to play, which is my favorite poem.
the sun sets, like a poem
and the darkness that comes is a poem.
nobody goes home, and this too is a poem.
the crickets begin to sing, which is a kind of poem.
today is all poems.
the lamppost is shining poems,
the light is a poem,
the cold coffee is a poem,
this window is a poem,
and the night that holds all of this is a poem.
oh, i never want to leave.

let the word
beautiful
sit for a bit
on your tongue
until the taste is sweet
you are this,
soft girl.
look at the poems that have made a
bird’s nest out of you
a home
look at the light
how yellow loves to be on your skin
there are stars in you
be (hold) your beauty

i wonder
what will be the cause of heartbreak?
what will make you leave?
will i make you leave?
who will leave?
i know
one of us will.
i already know
i will
not save anything for myself
(i know i should)
but i will not
i will
not even try.
i will
give you everything—
my heart, my bones, my time,
my shoulders and hands and collarbone
and all of my firsts.
i will
write you poems, tuck them in your hair
i will
whisper you my love in the night.
i wonder
about your eyes
how will they see me?
what color are they?
what will it take from me to make them dance?
i know
i will love you long after you’re gone
ours will be the story
i will tell my children
i know
i will forgive you and let you go,
remember you more times than i should,
write you poems you will never read.

m a y b e
may be
may (i) be
i (may) be
may i (be) May
(May): spr(i)ng and flowers and bees
(be)es
be (sweet)
be (here)

may i just be
may there always be room for me
between may and be.

have you ever stopped to think
that maybe i raise my voice
not out of disrespect
but maybe
so you can listen?
listen.
there is a heart here, afraid. of you.
there is brokenness you inflicted. pain you named into existence.
wounds that maybe time will heal.
there is laughter that does not want you to hear it.
a song whispered so that you cannot have it.
one day the whisper will become a song.
the laughter a poem.
the heart a voice, saying,
i am here i am here i am here
i am here i am here i am here
i am here
and you will listen.

if/when
you choose to reach (for) me
do it because of me
because i am what you want
i am nothing more
than myself
i am a heart that beats in verse
but i am not these poems
i am my skin
a home to my soul
i am not these words
i have tried to become them
but i am more

you
stars in my sky,
wishes come true
you
wildflowers unafraid of growing,
making the world beautiful just by being
you
poetry alive,
flying verses, walking rhymes
you
your laughter makes rain fall
seeds grow flowers and hope bloom
you
are the spring
i am just happy i get to be close to
you

un día maybe papi
will see me
will not tell me que cambie esa cara
understand that i only have one
and that he gave it to me
un día maybe papi
will brew us some coffee
hot enough to break el hielo we both put in there
un día maybe papi
will listen to my silence
understand that there are words in it too
will stop pulling out
palabras que no pueden salir
un día maybe
mis palabras tendrán color
they will be like a river that i cannot stop from flowing
un día maybe i will write him a poem
and it will be in a book
un día maybe papi
will not have to ask me to speak up
un día maybe
papi querrá bailar conmigo
un día, maybe.

un día maybe mami
will run her hands through my hair.
she will not try to straighten it.
her fingers will be gentle and kind.
un día maybe she will look at my skin
won't point out the flaws
(aunque los haya)
she will connect all the freckles and beauty marks
me llamará una constellation
miel will drip from her lips
fall on my forehead
un día maybe mami
will understand me
read my poems
write me un poema
in which she loves me

maybe my poems
(my love)
are meant for the rain
she will carry my words
(my love)
across the river
to the sea
tell the fisherman
he’s got mail

there is a poem here.
in new york city.
in the park and how the wind
tangles itself between the trees
in the train
eyes that meet
and touching knees
and all the hearts inside that beat
the wandering souls and wandering feet
there is a poem in new york city
does it belong to me?

in the event of an emergency,
return my eyes to the sky.
my hair to africa.
my skin to the rain.
give my smile to my mother,
she always loved it best.
give my mouth to my father,
my voice as well. make sure it is loud.

return my poetry to my English teachers,
give my words to my brother.
tell him there was so much i wanted to tell him,
give him both my ears, tell him i will always listen.

give my hands to my heart.
my heart will be tucked in my journals,
give them to the boy who loves me.
mail my songs to Maine,
with the letters you will find inside the shoeboxes.
give my feet to New York City,
my laughter to my students.

return my coffee mugs to my grandmother,
my tongue to her cooking.
give my books to my friends,
and both of my shoulders.

if there is anything left,
give it to the earth.
let the birds make of my bones a home,
let the spring find room to bloom.
give my lungs the air they were waiting for.

i want words
for this
for me
for you
i want words
like a river like an ocean like rain
i do not want silence
i do not want to hesitate
i want honey on my lips on my tongue
words dripping from my mouth
hands overflowing
with poetry and song and
i want words

about seventeen years ago,
i prayed you into existence.
i asked for a baby sister;
got you instead.
you are not what i wanted,
but know this: you are wanted.
i am six years older,
but you are always six steps ahead.
when you laugh, and your eyes light up,
i am six again
and you are young and playful and you.

you are here.
hold on to this moment. there is a poem, here.
and at the same time, there isn’t. there is so much more.
this is a moment in which words are not enough.
here lies every moment, every breath, every joy and every hurt:
all that it took for you to be here.
here is love.
the love of your family, your friends, your self.
here is hope.
it was the sun that kept you alive, the roots that kept you grounded, the rain that made you grow.
here is a small moment.
and yet, it is meaningful.
because you are in it.
here.

when i write
i am reaching out for you
(to you)
the belief (hope) that you are out there
that i have seen you
and you have seen
me
there is a longing here
and i have no words for it
and most days,
i can ignore it
but some days
there are no poems
there is only the fire
the longing left behind
the fingerprints of wind on my face
maybe one day
the longing
will move into someone else’s heart
put a ‘for sale’ sign in mine

could you, please,
slow
down?
listen to your heart.
drum.
hummingbird.
house.
wildflower garden, unkempt
but growing.
this is who you are.
wild and messy,
beautiful and
free.

i am every word i have dared to utter and i am every word i have kept quiet
i am my heart and the courage it needs to beat again and again
i am every time i have said ‘i love you’ and ‘thank you’ and ‘i am sorry’
and i am every poem i have read and listened to and watched
i am the flowers you planted in my heart when you smiled
i am alive
i am the coffee my mother brews
(i no longer brew it myself.
i got burned once by the flame and no longer use matches.)
which is to say, i am afraid
(of fire. of burning. of breaking.)
i have forgotten to be brave
(have i?)
remind me of the courage in fire
(my heart.)
the light
the warmth
love.
(they are worth the burns.)

maybe one day
i will not have to write you this poem—
how many times have i started to write it only to give up?
maybe the hurt and silence
will stop becoming the bridge we cross every morning
just to say hello
let us burn it
build a new one out of coffee mugs and sunrises
and everything that is a new beginning
i will let go of my pride
my silent anger
lose this game
of indifference and silence
i have never wanted to win

every morning
i walk into this space:
a classroom.
i turn on the lights,
open cabinets,
set the tables
with paper and pencil.
i tell myself that i will teach you what i know,
which is not much.
i read you stories, tell you about poetry
and i let you play.
in exchange,
you teach me what you know:
to laugh at myself, to play,
to look at the world around me
and take notice of it.
every now and then i wonder,
who is the teacher?
is it me
or
is it you?

instructions on opening the heart:
whisper to it.
tell it you love it.
it will believe you, eventually.
sing to it.
until it is no longer afraid of your voice.
tell it about the world.
how it is graceful and beautiful and kind.
how the wildflowers grow.
tell it about this day.
how it is waiting for you.
how wonder calls your name.
tell it about love.
how it has been asking for it,
waiting for it,
homeless.

loving you teaches me
i still have a lot to learn.
about love:
how it learns to bend under the weight
of shortcomings.
how forgiveness holds it all together.
about you:
how i do not know you entirely.
how every day is like meeting you for the first time.
about me:
how i am the best of me when i'm with you.
how my heart grows with the passing of time.

i wish you well.
every joy.
all the words. may you turn time into poems. into stories. to keep forever.
i wish you rain.
growth. spring.
summer.
a kiss.
light. may you always trust the path before you. even if you cannot see it.
laughter. like a waterfall.
photos. take them. be in them, too.
softness. for the heart, the eyes. the soul.
songs. for every moment. for when there are no poems.
airplanes and coffee shops and places.
friendships. silver and gold.
letters. for you, from you.
wisdom. and the learning that comes with it.
the tears, too.
rivers to follow.
and all that hasn’t been yet.

there is so much of you here.
in me.
my skin
holds your touch.
your fingerprints are mine.
my eyes
are the color of every coffee we shared.
my lips
have learned to move like yours
my words
rhyme with your own.
do not wonder if you left any traces.
i carry them all.

my love is a four year-old
on chocolate milk and cake
running way too much, way too fast,
giving way too much, way too fast.
it has the scrapes and bruises to show for it.
i have tried to put it to bed early,
to sing it lullabies
and read to it stories,
hoping for peace.
but my love goes to preschool,
where they teach it to write poems
and sing nursery rhymes.
in art class,
it spends the hour making paper hearts,
giving each one away and not keeping one to itself.
in music class,
my love learns to sing along with other hearts.
on the report cards,
the teachers write that my love is impatient,
and it raises its hands too much,
wanting to give all the answers,
not afraid of being wrong.
the teachers tell me that math is not my love’s strong suit,
that it mixes up its numbers
and always shares more than what it has.
but they also tell me that my love
gives away all its snacks,
that it is an expert at holding hands,
at looking out for others and making friends.
the teachers tell me not to worry,
that a love like mine is gifted,
that when it is older it will change the world.
i tell them that i worry that my love is too much,
but they tell me that it is just enough.

enterraron tus huesos,
pero no lo que había dentro de ellos.
enterraron tus huesos,
pero no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrar tu luz, ni tu amor,
ni la historia que tu vida contó.
no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrar tu risa,
tu canción,
los recuerdos que guardan aquellos que te aman.
enterraron tus huesos,
pero no te enterraron,
no pudieron enterrarte
porque tú no estás ahí,
en esas casas de tierra.
tú estás en los corazones de los que te amaron,
en los rostros de tus hijos,
en los ojos de tus nietos.
tú estás en las palabras que dijiste,
en los lugares que tocaron tus pies.
tu estás
en todas partes.

my hands are like my heart:
they know how to hold heaviness.
they know how to hold hope.
they make words come alive.
my hands, like my heart,
have learned to let go.
to hold on.
they have learned not to be so soft
but not too rough.
both of them, my heart and my hands,
they are like hummingbird wings.
they flutter,
they dive into love as if it were an ocean.
they do not know how to stop.

the other day,
when you asked if you could take the coffee maker with you to Boston,
i told you
that i never make coffee
when we are not together.
you laughed.
you jokingly said,
“is it because you miss me when i’m not here?”
we both laughed.
but honestly,
yes.

about a year ago,
you told me,
“you are starting to sound like me!”
i have yet to receive a better compliment.

the day before i left to new york
you gave me a hat you knitted yourself.
i wore it every day.
(until i lost it on the subway.
i may or may not have cried. i will never say.)

we both know you are not the best speller.
but i love the way you spell love:
s-h-a-r-e,
g-i-v-e,
c-a-r-e.

i give you myself
every time i write a poem
every word is a thread from my soul
every letter stands for a heartbeat
i will always have words for you.
i do not know how else to love.

i have never written you a poem.
this is a song long overdue.
i love you
i love you
i love you.
i love you because you love
because without you
i could not love.
you are my needle and thread
the milk and honey
that feeds these bones
the bread and wine of this soul.
you are the home of my words
you are the teacher of my hands
you tell them to hold other hearts gently
you tell them to hold on
you tell them to let go.
you sing to me every morning
you sing me alive
you sing to me
i love you
i love you
i love you.

all of this.
this breathing.
this walking.
this speaking.
this writing.
all of this is here
all of this is to say
that i was here.
that i am here,
and when i am no longer here,
i still will be.
all of this
is an attempt
to not forget myself
to not let you forget me.
all of this.
this body.
this hair.
this skin.
this voice.
all of this is here.
all of this, it matters.
today
i mattered
tomorrow
i will.

i hope
that every evening
after coming home
when i look at myself in the mirror
to find a poem.
to find my curls alive,
to look at them and see the story that today told:
the times the wind kissed the strands
and the hands i love touched my head.
the times i laughed and tossed my head back,
unraveling the waves, welcoming the mess, welcoming the joy.
to find my eyes alive,
tired, maybe, but alive,
that they, too, share the story today told:
the times i closed my eyes in gratitude,
the smiles i smiled with them,
the stars and fire i keep in them,
the shine i cannot erase.
i hope
to look at myself in the mirror,
my face a giveaway
that today i was alive.

i am waiting for a poem
a poem that is waiting for me
a poem that sits on the night like a star
a poem i did not write but instead lived
i am waiting for words
words that aren’t empty
words strong enough to carry this story
words raw and meaningful and unafraid
i am waiting for answers
answers to questions
answers to life
answers to this waiting
i am waiting for love
love that makes songs out of moments
love like coffee and milk
love that heals
i am waiting
i am waiting
waiting for me.

i used to tell myself the same thing.
that maybe something was wrong with me.
that maybe love was enough for me but i was not.
i have imagined kisses a thousand times
i have dreamt of arms around my own
and i have written enough love stories for the entire world
and poems to fill books
and i questioned so much-
my beauty, my worth, my skin, my bones
and i traveled and walked away
from fear and self-doubt
towards bravery and courage,
towards knowing what i want and what i deserve
and i know love is something i cannot earn,
something that belongs to me as much as air,
that love is enough for me
and i am enough for it
and i am enough with or without it.

my mother
does not love me in poems
in songs
(the way i know how)
but she loved me in phone calls
and breakfast
and new clothes in december
she loves me in doctor's appointments
and orange juice
and prayer
(the way she knows how)
and i will love you like this too
i will love you like my mother
and i will love you like me
i will love you in poetry
in words
in forehead kisses and long hugs
i will braid the words 'you are loved' in your hair
and i will kindle the fires inside you
i will wish upon the stars in your soul
i will love you in dreams
i will love you in ways i cannot tell
but i will love you

i want to memorize you
like a poem
sing to myself
the words of your bones to sleep
know your heart
by heart
and your voice
i want to keep it on the tip of my tongue
savor it
like a memory
i do not want to forget you

inspired by e.e. cummings’s 'into the strenuous briefness’

how many hellos
has the earth heard?
how many beautiful beginnings
has she seen?
how many roses has she bloomed,
and how many of them have been gifted?
how many hellos
have given way to friendship and
love,
how many of them have turned into light?
she keeps them all,
the roses and hellos,
turns them into poems
and turns them into time,
sunrises and sunsets,
beginnings and farewells,
you and me
in between it all.

i am not a stranger to hopelessness
it is easy to get tired of waiting
for what you want but won’t come
like love
like a hand to hold
the time when arms hold you instead of your arms holding others
like love
the feeling that everyone else (it seems)
but you
knows
it is easy to believe it will never come
but we keep waiting, don’t we?
we wake up every morning,
we give thanks,
we live,
we listen for the song of the birds
and sing back to them, “maybe today,”
and at night when the stars come out
we still dare to make wishes upon them
keeping our options open
hoping
hoping
hoping

the sparrows and their song
visited my windowsill this morning
their notes
a poem
a memory
a whisper,
“we are here, we sing.
you are here, so sing.”

our house will be big enough
to hold our two hearts
and the love that beats out of them
the walls will be filled with the words
i wrote to you
and all the times you told me ‘i love you’
in our kitchen
i'll save the recipes
to make you laugh
to make you smile
to make you forget your troubles
our bookshelves will be filled with poetry and flowers
our house will have a garden
where hope will grow wild
and every time i choose you
a flower will bloom

hay un país en el mundo
colocado
en el mismo trayecto del sol.
y yo estoy en él.
intentando nadar en sus aguas de ron y morirsoñando,
intentando no ahogarme,
intentando volver al lugar de donde soy.
en las orillas del mar
de este país en el mundo
la arena cuenta la historia de aquellos que estuvieron antes de mí
de los barcos,
los barcos,
los barcos que dieron y robaron,
los barcos que me dieron mis rizos y mi nariz,
mi español y mi apellido.
hay un país en el mundo
colocado
en el mismo trayecto del sol.
y yo estoy en él,
con amor por sus lluvias de café y gente cálida,
sus calles y sus ríos,
playas y canciones.
hay un país en el mundo
colocado
en el mismo trayecto del sol.
y yo estoy en él,
temiendo por sus mujeres y su belleza,
temiendo por sus niñas,
temiendo por, y a, sus hombres sin amor.
hay un país en el mundo,
colocado
en el mismo trayecto del sol.
y yo estoy en él.
su tierra tiene más poemas de los que sabe leer,
más canciones de las que puede cantar,
más esperanza de la que ha perdido.
todavía hay esperanza
para este país en el mundo
colocado en el mismo trayecto del sol.
y yo estoy en él.

there is a country in the world
put on the same trajectory as the sun
and i am in it
trying to swim in its waters of *** and morirsoñando
trying to stay afloat,
trying to swim back to where i came from.
in the shores of the sea
of this country in the world
the sand tells the stories of those who came before me
the ships,
the ships,
the ships that gave and took away,
the ships that gave me my curls and my nose,
my spanish and my last name.
there is a country in the world
put on the same trajectory as the sun
and i am in it,
with love for its coffee rains and warm people,
for its streets and rivers,
beaches and songs.
there is a country in the world
put on the same trajectory as the sun
and i am in it,
afraid for its women and their beauty,
afraid for its girls,
afraid of, and for, its men without love.
there is a country in the world
put on the same trajectory as the sun
and i am in it,
and this land holds more poems than it can read,
more songs than it can sing,
more hope than what it has lost.
there is hope
for a country in the world
put on the same trajectory as the sun
and i am in it.

tell me
i am beautiful
not because i need to hear it
not because if you do not say it i won’t believe it
(because i will believe it, i already do)
tell me
i am beautiful
because you think so
because i am

aren’t you tired of looking for love?
aren’t you tired of waiting for it?
the love like a movie like a song like a story like a dream like a poem?
aren't you tired?
isn’t your hope weary?
and, don’t you see?
love has always been here,
the love you crave,
the love like a movie like a song like a story like a dream like a poem
love like a river like a waterfall like an ocean
love like this morning like this breath like this moment?

i love you con todo my heart
te amo with all my voice
te amo como my favorite song
otra vez and again y otra vez
my love for you es como un garden
growing and growing and growing
mi amor is like el mar
deep and beautiful and wild
my love is un poquito como este poema
broken in pedacitos of spanish and inglés
te amo with all mi corazón
i love you con todo my heart

when you leave my body
i will love you
i will tend the spring in your hair
make flowers
bloom
make your waves
oceans
when you leave my body
i will raise you
to the sky
let you touch the clouds
the sun
let you know what light is
when you leave my body
i will keep you in my heart instead
i will kiss your forehead
press you against my chest
i will love you.

lips find
lips find lips
find lips
hands find
hands find hands
find hands
skin finds
skin finds skin
finds skin
i find you
you find me