Struggling Roots

my coworker politely

and with hesitation

reached 

across continents

his hands outstretched

for my 

grabbable curly oh so unruly lovable

beauty of a kinked coiled hair

i didn’t make a statement

i wasn’t protesting

in truth, i was tired

the kind of tired that can sag into your skin

and soak up precious energy

tired of 

carefully descabbing the scorched scalp

so the blood flakes wouldn’t mar my fresh ‘do

three hours of yelling Dominican women

of avoiding water like acid

my angry kitchen wilting

tired of thinking that one day

my struggling roots would give up, 

fall out like milk teeth

tired of missing myself in the mirror.

The Holy War

we are born cradling our knees

as closely as a guitarist plucks his strings

holding onto the spark

buried deep into the tissue

subconsciously, we expose our torsos

only

to those who make us feel vulnerable

i’m bound from heavens doors by these blankets

false advocates reach for my stomach

ao while i lay and pray

the devil dances on this mattress

i’m breathing heavy

and curl up

rocking between heaven and hell

there’s no more left of my spark to sell

but i hear the bidding for my organ’s 

are going quite well

that’s when sleep swoops in and

saves me

when everything fades

thoughts begin to fall like dominoes 

the battle follows, a shadow

i can’t feel my knees like a wounded soldier

my war’s peace

is somewhere between death and defeat

Spanglish

spanish

spanglish

hispanic

is north america’s second language

taught poorly in schools

coached in offices

shouted from rooftops

and cackled in homes

my mom really only spoke fluently

when she was angry or gossiping

it never sounded romantic to me

like its own heaviness

a language

to be muttered

under the breath of grumpy puerto rican men

as morenos walk by

for second generation children to scold their children

and for Hollywood

whenever a character

needs to curse in a pg-13 movie

Travel Journal Entry

Travel List:

bug spray

lotion 

deoderant

swimsuit

laptop…

Directions:

9:42 TGV 9566 platform 1

Hotel de la Comete

196 Boulevard de la Villete, La Villete near 19e

Left here…

June 23rd first impressions:

our ridiculous walk to find the Moulin Rouge 

left my feet blistered and bruised

hungry i am, but money must be preserved 

for the next train

thank god for all the pasta and bread to

fill the belly

Notre Dame made me want to sing to the hunchback

and in between the stares 

constant glares 

i found out that crepes can be savory

graffiti subways

public muggings

 

 

Letters To A Stranger

Come in

Tell me of your trip

of memories gained

pictures taken

food eaten

Tell me of curries and roads I can’t pronounce

gates swinging

of your father’s stare

when he realized how much you look like him now

Tell me about mountains and city-scapes

hungry faces

yellow eyes and green irises

About your dream girl just there

Come in quick

Did his eyes swell with pride

or a glint of selfishness

wishing he was young again, undoing certain choices

Tell me about the train you missed

the mists over fields

the mansions and shacks

how the words jumbled around in your mouth before

now familiar

just easing out

Tell me of oceans

and time zones

animals

Speak to me until we are no longer strangers

but kin

establishing a reconnection

Do the men where you come from sway when they talk

Do the women where you come from shuffle their feet as they walk

and even though the stars are the same

if you tell me

that you laid there

under their luminous glow, wishing

I will know they must’ve been brighter than any stars

I have ever known

Innocence

shh don’t cry for the

innocents slain at their hands

innocence is often broken

don’t cry for me

i’m still here

taking it all in

but find a tear

for those two legged foes

who walk on this earth

to destroy consume and bend

your parts around your will

those hardened hearts without control

they are considered normal

and until the reign of normal ends

cry for what could have been

A Brief Guide To Walking Home Alone. While Female. And Black. And in the Hood.

Don’t smile

for some reason smiling is a sin that tempts the devil inside most people to cross that line

between polite and creepy

Don’t fear the boys who follow you

like dogs sniffing at the scent of your heels pressing the pavement

running will only encourage those emboldened by the cover of night

Never slouch or try to disappear into yourself

this will only make them want you more

Hold your chin parallel to the ground

more often than not they just want the queen they see gliding by to soften

to cuddle their crusted over sense of rage and rejection

to hold not knowing how so they reach out and grab

You remind them of ma and grandma pounding yam in the kitchen before dinner

of Sunday school mornings and hide-and-go-freak evenings

of their first dirty magazine

and the embarrassment of not knowing how to kiss because no one tells them what they’re expected to know

Don’t offend when skulked

Watch your shadow in a reflection

it will meet a person too close

before your eyes do

Don’t back down when challenged

and balance your bags on both shoulders

Don’t let that comment burrow inside

I know you’re tired

but home is waiting just there

and that place

you should keep safe…

and defend

by any means

necessary.

A Poem Can Be

a poem

can hurt or hate, can feel abandon…and reckless

it can joke

and lie

and speak

and whisper all the things you want them to hear

a poem

can have secrets

when the soul is too heavy to carry them

it can live

in the bruised skin on your knuckles

and just beneath the ducts in your eyes

can hold you

feed you

miss your voice as its reading

it can be

a listening friend when everyone else

ignores the screaming

If I Could

if I could learn to love you less

the sky would open up and swallow me whole

if I could learn to love you less

i bet my success would be big enough to fill the gap of your leaving

if i could manage that

then why not bend the trees at my command

if there were less to love

they’d sing your praises from rooftops

if there were less to love

i could slide my attention to shifting through time

and finally

blot out that fusty sun

just a smidgen more heartless

and i could sour pickles at will

kill daffodils

the impossibly unknown would be in my control

i’d manifest solid homes for those without

or be the master of my own eudaimonia

in time, i could

then again

in time, i could also learn to

move the stars in the sky

teach them how to play a jazz tune

whenever the moon came around

if i could learn to love me more

i guess there’d be no point to this poem

because i would have everything

i ever needed

Blackbird

broken winged blackbird

I see your need to cry

your shudder in the dark

your plead to the open sun

blackbird you will fly again

you will not fall

your wings I will mend

because I heard your call