Sour Grass (from a personal collection "Of Childhood")

I squat down on the wrong side of the house

where the electric meter lives.

Legs effortlessly folded over flat

butt behind feet

back bent forward to balance my tiny body.

I pick through the wet grass

so small and close

to the blades,

it feels as if I am looking through a microscope.

Bugs and dirt live here.

The chain linked fence behind me

lets rays of sun peek through solid burgundy slats 

like they're leaning in to tell me a secret.

I reach down to pull out translucent bright green stems 

tops yellow with flowers

roots drop the soil

that held them up.

I taste it.

i.D.entity Crisis

To be woman.

To be brown.

To be asked, “what are you?”

as if you should respond with something other than human.

To identify as a color when nobody is truly the exact same color.

To wonder if you are more or less <LATIN> than someone who just arrived?

To ponder that your knowledge of a culture makes you more of that

To question the scenarios that made you lose the language

To look at others and judge based on what you are hearing or seeing

In a moment.

It’s a funny thing to be evaluated on where your ancestors came from when

they came from the Earth.

My blood is filled with

conflicts,

wars,

heritage,

triumphs,

My blood is filled by people

that lived on the land,

that spoke another language,

that were more brown, more white

that were different than me.

My blood is fluent in the language of conquerors

and of people conquered,

I am a tribal conquistador that ravaged

my own people.

And yet today I am a checked box.

I am Hispanic.

Generational Song

In the dark cold, on a cement floor,

fingers fondled over dusty stored

records in the cleared-out garage.

Now empty, memories of music playing in a full house,

small children running from room to room

holiday laughter humming over conversation.

I thought of you all, no longer with us,

lost in time. Rhythmic warm embraces of friendship

dressed up as family. Redolence of Christmas

songs yelling out. Crackling fireplace

with years of photos. Pinnacle of possibilities

before the deaths stack up in closure to an end.

Seesaw

I miss the sound the children make most. As I pass the park now, the sign on the gate reads closed. The empty space surrounded with bars resembles a cage haunted by the missing collection of tropical birds. I recall the faded symphony of high pitched notes that once chirped above the city’s low bass rumble like a chorus of woodwinds. I crave the happy melody that blended into one. Timeless, the song has not changed, reminds me of childhood, Kodak film, steel gray domes crowded with little arms and colorful corduroy pants. I imagine the children migrated someplace else, flocks of kids that used to run freely are now elsewhere, sand jammed in the toes of their shoes, electric energy, strands of hair like feathers pushing upwards, weightless flock flying to land gracefully on each structure. Momentum, whizzing by on a merry-go-round, an abstract painting against the gray fog sky. Hands outstretched pulling each other onboard in perfect echelon. No one left behind. 

I hope wherever the children have gone there is vivid color, a prism of light moving their bodies towards the sun. 

But, most of all, I hope there is laughter.

First published in The Distance of Skin, Poetry in the Time of COVID-19, Spring 2020, City College San Francisco, CA.

Inoculation of Healing

Sitting outside at noon 

    the sun hot and high. Breeze moves

over your face, a strand of hair 

    caresses 

        your skin. From this perch, I’d watch 

hummingbirds

    this garden’s regulars, wings flapping, hovering 

        to suckle deep red abutilon blossoms 

Appreciating

sounds that silence brings, churning of life. I’d wait

Two of them 

    sit on a black wire

        communicating with their bodies

My focus would narrow in, to notice the hush

    contented tranquility 

even hummingbirds are 

    still sometimes. 

First published in The Distance of Skin, Poetry in the Time of COVID-19, Spring 2020, City College San Francisco, CA.

On Possibilities and Regrets

Leg pushing through air

extended, pulling

mid-mass forward

counting in time, the rhythm.

Know-how sprung from experience

Music playing in unison,

racing still with reflection.

Outside,

forlorn thoughts

whispered through branches,

halting for the seasons change.

Stars fell

lost

forever.

Never to be counted again.

Traveling down the road

without

the bondage of youth.

Knowing

the authors of time

shared that which only age

could give.

Letting go

of the view in the mirror.

Dreams.

Origins

A what point in history is your heritage defined?

Are we of the Earth, related to the animals?

Or part of the water flowing through our veins?

Would I be considered indigenous, le gente natural?

Or ascended from the conquistadors and fleets that came in search of treasure

Am I the gene most expressed defining the color of my skin,

Am I my parents.

Or am I just me?

The Bulldozer

Perched up top. Little one, filled with dreams of the future. 

Clutching down as the pulley rocks clearing the way for promise. 

Laughing, maneuvering, looking down at the treads left behind 

and at the marks pushed into the thick mud ahead. 

Sun beating down as the dust clusters around your face and enters your eyes. 

The smell of fresh air, those memories that consume the moment

allowing only the immediate to fill your mind. Childhood away from the city was prime; 

as parents we ventured to create only the idea of possibility - building a new home.

After Summer

Leaves bust out of the stems that hold them 

ripened to the fullest extent of their life. 

The promise of life that winter held wears away, 

and the joy of spring fades to gray. 

Many days will pass, 

and while the leaf becomes wise to the totality of life,

no one is ever ready for the fall. 

The End

Dark and light it soars, searching. 

Nourishment for its soul, in the face of others. 

It listens, hoping for the sound of permanence and purpose. 

I saw it fly once, above me. 

The shadow cast low and moved across my shoulders in rhythm with its hunt. 

The glossy green hues danced in the sunlight, as I watched the weight of its cool black body float above the end approached as a whisper. 

I wondered why the air resisted its force as the tricksters thick beak broke through. 

As its lower mandible held tight to its nourishment, I wondered when the last

breath would be taken. 

This trickster, forced open its long feathers to manipulate the air and to halt. 

With one motion, the inevitable future, the end. 

Breakfast

Breathing.

Clinking and clanking, arms moving up and down to facilitate mastication. 

Sitting at the marble table with legs twisted twice around

allowing only the tips of toes to touch the concrete floor. 

In and out with a consciousness,

Searching outward and inward in unison. 

An awareness, a lesson, learning. 

Feeling the emptiness in my stomach, I take a bite. 

For the first time, to love myself

Through it. 

Giving myself the nourishment I deserve. 

Realizing the love I wanted was my own. 

Chew, swallow, and finally - 

Exhale. 

The Spot

We found a meadow. 

Fallen bees, the sound of blades of grass. 

A symphony of rustled sounds. 

It was peaceful, unsettling. 

We longed — wanted more — it was over. 

It happened.