Dear, Venezuela and Greenland,

A couple months ago I wrote

A poem apologizing to Canada,

And saying that they DO NOT

Belong to us.

I’m deeply angered,

Saddened,

And heartbroken

That I have to write another.

This time for two countries.

We have no idea

What’s going on.

We have no idea

What will happen next.

I wish I knew how it all plays out in the end.

So, first to Venezuela,

I’m sorry.

And to Greenland and Denmark,

I’m sorry.

This makes up for none of it,

And we don’t deserve to be forgiven.

—one of millions of fearful Americans.

The sky wears billowing gowns, layers

Upon layers of silk fluttering

With the breeze, and

She dances in it with ease, never

Tripping or stumbling but

Forever stretching out her arms;

She smiles with the sun, and

Her eyes, which

Forever bear the mark

Of the stars, twinkle as

Her blue face flushes

With the clouds, freckles

Of birds countless and soaring, and

Hearts flutter like their wings when

They catch a glimpse;

She embraces everyone with

Beauty and with grace, and

She forever expands her reaches so

It is clear how endless

Her love is stretched so

Thin but

Even the most tattered blanket can

Bear the warmth of a hug;

She isn’t tattered, though, and

She welcomes all in her kingdom, and

Why is it that people refuse to

Stare up at the sky and

Consider Her Majesty a

Wonder of leadership

To behold?

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

takes me to all the places and people that I’ve known and loved
            Seen Come and Go

Through the in-between-bars I can see the familiar creaky swings fly high
        the same swings that brought me so close to touching the leaves, las hojas to write my story, with my bare feet

Flip-flops tossed aside, reaching, stretching towards this little piece of freedom

When it opens, my Portón opens the world to me, and takes me home

Secure, strong, forgotten
Taken for granted

Mi portóncito 

Say you're a president.

Not a king.

If that's true then what's happening in Venezuela? 

You removed a ruthless dictator, yes,

but you just replaced him with another.

And what happened to Renee Good the other day?

The mother of 3,

the poet with a whistle.

Be honest with yourself,

you're a king that's obsessed with power.

If you say you're not,

then prove it.

Nobody will believe you otherwise.