Writing

The girls,

the little kids on the bus, 

switching seats and grabbing friends and TALKING

loud and jarring

life is joy, to them,

life is play.

I want them to stay there.

[This is a reposted edited version of a previous poem of mine.]

when all we have is spent–

what will we have left?

people once before us–

When I look at you,

the world feels like it finally chose the right ending.

No scripts, no staged lines,

just two hearts learning their way through the same story.

You don’t need crowns to be royalty.

Mi portóncito

My little gate that swings me across the same arc across the tile patio floor;

the cold metal gray bars pressed to my face, hanging on to

Mi portóncito- the one taking me home

I can hear the party still going 

starting in the kitchen,

spilling into the dining room 

and out onto the deck 

I hear the sound of fizzy champagne filling crystal glasses

you are a petty man.

not a leader,

merely a tyrant.

no worry for

the whiteless.

no concern for

the non-cisgender.