For every poem I write,
every line
who has sacrificed their being
for my meaning…
I am full of gratitude.
March 10, 2018
For every poem I write,
every line
who has sacrificed their being
for my meaning…
I am full of gratitude.
March 10, 2018
my darling,
sleeping in this bed,
waiting until
there’s only now
and no tomorrow;
each cell
a masterpiece
of sound and I
celebrate
the beauty
that has come
into my life.
Slowly, sun lifts
from eyebrow
to eyebrow,
yawns across the sky
and grants us a grin–
now tell me again
of this thing called love?
I hear you
in the night,
just as gentle
and unafraid
as you are
in the morning–
sun shining,
blades of grass
shooting upwards,
following my mind’s eye
as I send
a word of thanks
to whatever god
there is for sending
you to me.
How many steps
were taken,
books read,
conversations had
until you reached
my lips?
How many times
did we scream,
“When?”
before I could
tell you,
“Now”?
It is always now.
It is always now
that I will love
your midnight kisses,
blush as you name
your reasons
for loving me;
now is the time
I love you
and the tongue
you use to speak,
words of rise
and triumph
and resistance
and awe.
Now is a time
for no time,
for no thing,
except our cells
lighting up,
greeting each other,
saying,
“Hello, again…”
March 8, 2018
when you’re tired
like the world meant for you to be
and you’re broke
like the world meant for you to be
and you’re lonely
like the world meant for you to be?
You get angry
like Earth meant for you to be
you find truth
like Earth meant for to find
you fight back
like Earth meant for you to do
you let go of the world
like Earth meant for you to do, too.
You build a new world.
February 11, 2018
Lets celebrate
the gift that has been lent to me–
let us remember
that thought is unnecessary unless there is a problem…and there is no problem here.
The curves and edges of elbows and shoulders and thighs and necks
swooped over the sides of balconies,
either wishing for a way out or a way into
this life, this body, this mind and energy granted to us from some source unknown
and yet completely home;
let us celebrate the pleasure of being in it, of stomping up and down stairs when we are mad,
of walking away from a first kiss, drifting,
of eating a warm flaky croissant, of feeling
the fat roll around my insides as my heart grow outwards, reminding me to celebrate the choice
to observe, to take in,
to learn about what is worth thinking about, challenging, questioning — and what is worth knowing to be truth
and nothing more.
Celebrate your womanhood.
To be a woman
and to pleasure in it…
that is rebellion.
January 21, 2018
You
are my grounding love.
Lifting me up,
love tingles;
grounding,
love soothes,
gives permission to be
rather than question.
So much time
is spent questioning:
twenty pools of Walden Pond water and I always try to sift my way out–
but this is sea, not sand.
Knowing your face
is part of my fate…
yes, I feel butterflies,
but they are not fluttering,
they are gliding–
spreading their golden wings over my insides,
reminding me that I am home.
January 3, 2018
So –
do you think this neighborhood is too
gay
for you,
maybe too
poor
for you
and oh, that means too
dangerous
for you?
Are you just so
uncomfortable
when you see people
who are
not
like
you
because you’re not gay –
gosh, no;
and you’re not poor,
not gonna steal some stuff
off some other soul’s back
because you were left behind
to feed a mother and two kids-
no way.
You are just a person,
after all–
you shouldn’t
have to deal
with these feelings,
these
difficult
thoughts.
No —
you can just leave them outside,
let them blow away
in the blizzard,
land on someone else’s
snowy, white
front step.
January 3, 2018
Waves of story –
that is an emotional life…
trauma informed you have to mentally be still,
learn to see the busyness in your body, in your mind, practice
often, even though it isn’t fair you were born into a god damned
patriarchal, capitalistic, racist, classist, sexist, homophobic society
that favors my white Latina skin, that denies my queerness,
that pokes fun at my gender
every single day.
And stories- stories are life’s meaning that, in their fullest,
most fleshed out form, make us human.
I want this to be an ode to SBU; to HC;
an ode to Bruce,
my body, my breath;
an ode to my throat; an ode to my face;
an ode to my familia, my Kenny, my mother; an ode to my father,
brother, sister, to friends long lost;
an ode to America, to nationalism and Puerto Rico’s remains;
an ode to my pen;
an ode to emotional bodies laying dormant, untouched,
by a warmed soul lingering underneath,
pure animal energy
born in the womb of the Earth, returning to the universe
once I dare to turn each story around…
December 6, 2017