As the moon arose daily,
the summer was at its wit's end. 
But the ecosystem around me remained living. 
The leaves on the trees were as green as the envy of a queen, 
with the wish of another life. 
The trees were strong and tall, 
reaching the blue light sky
with wisps of clouds, 
which seemed like ghosts, 
gracefully streaking the air with their milk-colored self. 
The grass under me was soft yet prickly. 
The sun setting let a gold light abound the outdoors, 
flooding it with its astonishing daffodil light. 
This was a summer's night. 
 

i am the child
of immigrants from
a place too scary to name,
a place my history books
cannot speak of.


they did not leave
because they hated their
roots, they did not leave
because america is 
beautiful because america
has only ever been beautiful
to the americans.


i am sorry, i am sorry
if i am disrespectful, but
i cannot sit here in my choir
class while we talk about
what the terrorists did
to beautiful, invincible,
america.


please.
stop remembering the hate.
start remembering the names.


maria rose abad,
peter paul apollo,
jack charles aron,
do you know the names,
american, do you,
tell me, have you spent your
nights looking at the names,
the names that will
forever bring me a
foreign guilt?


carl asaro,
sandy ayala,
brett t. bailey,