Feb 12


Airports feel like slipping
beneath security lines and
constantly losing purchase on people.

Darting over connected seats to glass windows,
everywhere is somewhere to watch you leave.

Finding which plane to track
gets difficult as
horizons blur
into shapes of you.

Just another few years to
kill waiting for you in the
lobby of departures.

Maybe next time you’ll get me a
new apology from the airport gift shop. I keep the last
one with me at night
pretending I’m still the child you bought it for. Sometimes I
question if you
remember me.

Sometimes I question if I lost you in
the sky or if it was on the
underground train to terminal C. I don’t remember
very well. But I can’t seem to forget

why we say goodbye in front of the full body
x-ray machine. I always hope the security line is long because
Feb 12


When I walk into a bakery in the
Mexican neighborhood of Philly
where the menu is written in my first tongue
I am so visible that I shine
bright white and the forty-something cashier
switches to rough English when she checks me out.

If I greet her in Spanish she might tilt her head
and rake her eyes up and down my body
like it is something foreign.
Like we weren’t made from the same wool.

It’s my fault
I knit my pale blanket so closely
around my skin and teeth that
my voice only dances in one language,
and for a rare time, I am silent.
Nov 14

Fragments 2

Fragments are all I have left of him.
Faded photographs in porcelain blue boxes shoved under my bed,
saved voicemails,
a letter in bright blue ink.

He left before I could articulate I needed him,
toddler hands grasping his shirt at the airport.
I waited-
seven hours and thirty-eight minutes.

I replayed the few memories of him over and over:
A thunderstorm in Puebla, the rain pelting the roof,
the way the lightning,
stabbing at intervals,
arched across the sky.

His laugh, rippling across the living room.

A birthday party, three candles on a sagging cake.

My awe visiting the ruins at Cacaxtla,
how he sat me on his shoulders so I could see,
stacked rock that used to be homes,
desperate etchings on the walls
spelling out a story I had yet to read.

These home movies flickered against my eyelids
before I fell asleep,
Jun 24


I want my mother
at night.
When my body catches up with my mind
and my face unfolds from sleep so I can
remember every detail of the dream that woke me.

I want my mother
at night.
When I stumble from my raised bed to hers
two rooms down and to the left.
Her covers are better,
her arms warmer,
her breath reassuring.

I want my mother
at night.
When I lose my first tooth
and I don't know if the fairy will come
because I might have put it under my pillow too late.

I want my mother
at night.
When she keeps the light on in her room
while she reads the bills until the morning.

I want my mother 
at night.
When the shouting reverberates in my ears,
about how what we have is not enough
How the crops are nothing compared to NAFTA.

I want my mother
at night.
When the days are getting longer
Jun 06

Again & Again

May 31


poor puebla princess
is dripping in gringa
on the flight back from burlington,
and her cousins rub their palms on her skin
wondering if it might spread.

parched puebla princess
is thirsty for the time of day when the sun can burn 
her incombustible skin.
the sun on the other side was too fragile, 

petulant puebla princess
wants to leave the stifling kitchen,
sick of peeling mangoes by the blue tile sink
while her father can roam

polite puebla princess
lets her eyes glaze over
when people ask her how
much she loves being
such a proper girl.

pale puebla princess
pretends she's sick in america
so she doesn't have to play with the friendly neighbor
that likes to tug her hair and ask why
she's so tan in the winter.

proud puebla princess
hates the boy in america that 
glares every time she speaks spanish,
May 25

Nos Faltan 43

Blood summers in the deep parts of mexico
are the reason I only visit in the spring.
They call them blood summers
because of how the air gets thick
and how the children get stolen.

I can either write or they can bleed
with the fragile heartbeats they have left.
Pain has always taken us for weak
and I am weak
so I write.

Sometimes they take them from school,
or from home, or from their father's arms.
And everyone is alone because
they don't get amber alerts.
Just death ones.

I can either write or they can cry
with leaking eyes we have yet to see with.
Memories gathered in the corners
dripping down our cheeks until we feel lonely
and I am lonely
so I write.

Have you seen the marches?
The charred paper with the faces etched in?
The billboards clustered on the highway?
The way they don't let go of their children?
May 23


May 18

Fun & Games

May 03