Poetry 2025

This got to me.  My father died when I was only twenty-one. I took for granted the hours, the minutes, the seconds with him. In the moment it felt like it would be forever. Like Hazel Grace Lancaster said it felt like a little infinity. I thought those big and little infinities would last forever. The fights, the cuddles, the laughter, the lectures, the tears, the anger, the little things that irritated me and endeared me, you think they’ll last forever, until one day they don’t.  But, watching my dad’s physical body deteriorate with cancer, but somehow hold onto his spirit, it made me appreciate the little infinity, it made me spend time with him, to tell him I love him, because it was then that I knew, that little infinity, would end one day. And it did, but not a day goes by that I don’t think of him, remember him, I feel him with me every day.  And, I’m grateful, for the eternal love and presence of his spirit. I had big infinities too with him. The times when he would rub my back before I went to sleep, listen to my stories, calm me down when I was upset. The times when he tickled me and was dancing and laughing. The times when he’d yell “hey, hey, HEY.” Those things may seem like insignificant details to most, but for me, they were the big infinities. They are the parts about him that I will miss the most.  I will miss his dancing, his laughter, his long lectures, his knocking on my door to check on me, his texts. His emojis which were this one mostly . It has been almost two years.  He died in August of 2023  

I am now almost 23. The memories are there.  I feel his spirit rubbing my back a lot, smiling at me. And I pray that my dad is okay up in heaven with God or wherever he is. I believe he is in heaven, even if I cannot comprehend what that truly means. He is proud of me. But it isn’t the same. He is not here in the way I want. Not physically.  

It hurts that I only got my father for just a teeny, little blink of time. For most of my life, he will be a presence. His spirit will live in me and be with me and watch over me. 

But he won’t be here physically. And that thought fills me with tears.  

That won’t go away. The pain of that won’t dull. It’ll get easier to bear. But it’ll be there. 

Just like the memory of him sobbing “I wanna go home.” When he was in so much pain, it etched in my brain. I think of that moment every day. And I’ll never ever forget it. I try to soften the blow with a tender memory, but it doesn’t take away the pain. All I can do is continue to live my life and let my dad comfort me: which, he always does: and love myself and love him and God as much as possible.   

I’m making him proud already. 

My given name was given as a gift, 

And like a candy too sweet, it would rot 

My teeth. It would become a plastic sword 

Taken from me, used against me, betraying 

Me like a bad dog that was never loved, biting 

That hand that doesn’t feed. 

It’s not the name’s fault, but it’s got to die- 

A spider in my house would have lived 

If it were born outside- so, I’ll crush it and when I 

Raid the tomb of my name, I’ll find something 

Salvageable, good bones, maybe the jewels 

It was buried with, and fashion something, 

Anything, better that feels like a gift 

Only I could have given. 

Dust that off 

Pick that up 

Sweep that spot 

Let’s even mop there 

Wash all of those dishes 

Maybe let that one soak until it softens 

Wipe the counters of the spilled beans 

Neatly pack that in the trash and take it out 

Maybe brush this one under the rug, for now 

Toss these down the garbage disposal, and turn it on 

Organize those so they’re as straight as they want us to be 

Replace that lightbulb so the flickering stops, so it picks a side 

Collect that so it doesn’t clog the sink and the keep water from moving on 

Throw that in the washing machine so it doesn’t stain the way being unheard does 

Fill that with plaster and hope you can find the right shade of normalcy to paint over it 

Trim that from the rest of the plant that’s detained in the corner of the room 

Take out the trash again, throw it out like they throw my people out 

Water the plants with the tears I’m not letting myself cry 

If that dish soaks for any longer, I’ll have mold 

Don’t forget the mess under the rug, it’s so much worse now, and heading past the point 

of no return 

Yo, America! 

“We think that to endure our suffering successfully, we must not speak, even to ourselves. And yet, this silence makes us the victim of our experience, not the master” (Orr 87).  

*knocks 5x* 

Hey America,                                                                           

the bollocks place I call home. 

Where the colonies were built off 

the backs of my African and Native 

brethren. The congealed souls 

of one purpose. 

Navigating the stars  

to find justice  

to punish 

you. 

I call them to action! 

*knocks 5x* 

Hey America,                                                                                                                                                           

have you looked at your hands lately?                                                                       

I heard about your 

Blood-coded epidermis 

and abnormal 

phalanges that point to respectful 

citizens; they scream Uncle Sam 

while their peripheral nervous systems 

are being exploited across the country, 

 starting from your backyard. 

*Bangs 5x* 

Yo America, 

Open this poorly illustrated  

eagle door–but 

you may not like what you see. 

A freshly honed knife,  

feedback to your fallacious promise  

reflecting through your keyhole. 

*Bangs 3x mimicking a cop* 

Yo! America! 

You’re surrounded! Four walls  

haven’t ever felt this tight, huh?! 

The helicopter hovers over your highlighted 

house as we speak, each window wakes  

to depict the faces  

of those citizens, you called 

aliens. Don’t be hidin’ behind 

your vermillion lace 

drapes! 

You’re not safe! 

*Some dude with a megaphone in the background* 

 America, 

you have the right to remain 

silent, 

anything you say and do can 

and definitely will be used against  

you in a court of law!!!– 

*Meanwhile* 

 No matter. 

Your debilitated Broca's area 

keeps you subpar. 

You left the backdoor ajar, 

and no alarm? 

The murder you call Amor, 

is showcased on the wall. 

Trophies you kept over centuries: 

bows and arrows, clubs and spears, 

swords and muskets and I dare say, 

even shears. 

I approach from the rear, 

watching as you squabble 

on the phone with other countries; 

“friends,” 

yet you glorified your name to fame, 

not being veracious  

about who paved the way. 

So now, 

 I’m a pace away. 

x 

Don’t Touch My Pupusas!! 

“Expedited removal” gives enforcement agencies broad authority to deport people without requiring them to appear before an immigration judge.” –As Trump ramps up immigration enforcement, Newark slams ICE over arrests there–story by Mike Catalini & Rebecca Santana 

MSN News 

Memories of my childhood 

in Montgomery Village Gaithersburg, Maryland. 

The corner neighborhood: 

Club Hill. 

Each morning I was invited to Diego Reyes’ 

house for breakfast. His two brothers 

Martinez and Riel scurried up and down  

the stairs like roadrunners, inquiring  

about their homework, 

Mamá, dónde está mi tarea?! 

Mrs. Reyes stood proudly, humming  

a song while she cooked amid smoke, 

that stuck its fingers in my nostrils 

lifting my body like a cartoon character. 

Three stuffed tortillas and salsa 

with homemade horchata presented, 

Mrs. Reyes called them Pupusas. 

Each morning I was invited 

and every morning I sunk my teeth 

into these cornmeal, thick flatbreads. 

In the evenings, Diego and José  

would strap on their cleats with me 

figuring out how we could play 

like Ronaldinho. José owned 

the name jerk more than the seasoning. 

He spat insults like a professional 

in a loogie contest. 

Today, I wonder if they 

are alright. With ICE  

dripping through the veins 

of our country, 

will they skate across  

without being consumed 

by the accumulation of 

water? 

I could never forgive myself 

if I returned, and the stomping 

stubby feet of Riel, 

were no more. 

I could never forgive myself 

if I let the pupusas, Mrs. Reyes 

prepared for me, go cold  

and unwanted. Her singing, no more. 

I could never forgive myself 

if their voices were stomped under  

grounds they’ve spoken above  

for years. Their laughter, no more. 

I could never forgive myself  

if I saw the Reyes family, the one 

I called mi familia and said 

te amo to every day 

be yanked from me 

like tug-of-war rope, disfiguring 

my smile, filling it 

with mud. 

I remember the soft 

summer suns, the sneaky  

steam of a good pupusa, 

I just have to pray 

the Reyes family will be okay. 

and the thing is… 

i think i hate expecting regulars and entitled women, 

or maybe i don't, she just had said so in the booth and the repetition is left in my head a lot of the time, too much time to convict  

and i think that i hate dog walkers plus the dog and HOAs and WASPs 

but i really don't, id heard about them once and wanted to touch an upscale building so that you'd like me more, resent me more  

and think i hate your stupid phone and the stupid game  

well, i don't,i hate switching sides and tuning out score predictions and ROTY because you couldn't notice i cut my hair different  

and i think i hated the frown you gave that one time asking me, wishfully about the one before  

i didn't really, i hated the answer boiling up from my pretentious lungs, the answer i knew would end things for good, a final parting gift in the form of a lie curated so good it destructs itself down to pity    

and i think i hate “implications” and dads rules  

but i don't, i hate that she told everyone and i couldn't stop her, sat on some corporate sideline waiting for my turn to give a testimony of what really happened upstairs  

and no, i don't hate dads rules, i hate that it was december and i felt like that manic man in the library that once, like an idiot  

and i think i hate eavesdropping in restaurants  

but i guess i don't, i just hate that you weren't listening to me instead 

and i think i hate when you look at me & lengthy obituaries extra  

but truly, i don't, just wanted to know how death feels like in whole, summarization paired with weary glorification equals divine resentment 

and i think i hate when you call  

i really don't, i hate the swallow before picking up the “hello?” right after   

and i think i hate farmers and their far fetched convictions 

or maybe i don't, i dont hate that he told me he was sorry, late for some shift at the pumpkin patch, i never showed up and i think on some level i've always regretted it, i hate that i couldn't find any part of me that could ever believe him quite right  

and i think that i hate malnourished dogs and babies for all the wrong reasons  

and i really don't, i watch them the way a child watches a worm wiggling up and out of their hands, with wonder  

and i think that i hate HIPPA and birth control  

i honestly don't, i formed grudges in the medium of disguised privilege 

and i think i hate low fat yogurt, the kind i fell in love with at 15, waking me up constantly to remind me about height weight ratio 

and i guess i don't, painting little flowers with my spoon & outlining your name on the edge of my bowl must have satiated all my morning hunger  

and i think that i hate waiting for you to leave so that i can.  

i actually do, i hate the stalled tying, i hate the eyebrows etched out into a faux allurement  

and i think i hate my front porch for holding me for too many years  

but not really, i don't hate the way it holds me, or the way i crawl into its edges to be taken to sleep, it's good that way 

and i think that i hate that i'm not unemployed anymore 

i dont hate my job, but i hate that i've been too occupied to remember birthdays, to use coupons from last summer, to be 17 again and again  

and i think i hate that supervisor and those congruent guidelines  

but i really don't, the “guidelines” are so easily susceptible to a grudge, i can't help it, 

 i just hate you  

but i maybe i don't hate any of this, 

i don't wonder too hard about it 

i've made myself sick over topics that only show up in the blankest parts of me   

and perhaps that's what i really hate,  

i hate all the things i may have ruined for myself  

cause im starting to think about how maybe finding gratification will come easier with time, 

and that i'll probably never get away from this city with 1000 year old oak trees  

i've been writing about car models for weeks now and it's all i can seem to obsess over  

there aren't many things i could tell someone to make them stay a little longer  

and i think i may get that from my mother  

i knew i wasn't good with those types of things around sophomore year  

it's the way i know i wouldn’t make an adequate waitress or hostess or wife  

the lists in my head consist of every inadequate quality left fixated 

it's the way i know i don't make a good violinist or pianist or cheerleader  

the way i know i still don't belong in a library or that university  

i could probably rest on broad shoulders and talk about every word that he ever said but i think it's better that i don’t remember them all too well 

the lengthy repetition in certain songs make car rides a little more hostile than they used to be  

i wanna read my college application essay over and over and eventually recreate one i think you could come to admire a little more  

so i could eventually take every tac off my wall and call myself clean, [reborn in your innocence] again  

and maybe it is simple minded of me to consider her my favorite author  

when there are dozens of perspectives i tune out to keep a straighter face  

if you told me to never write again, id probably comply and naturally end up harvesting envy against every well-thought out novel 

i hate my sense of direction and how i can never seem to swim quite right 

i hate condensation, especially on couch cushions   

and how i keep mixing up my c’s and s’s like a moron  

you could tell me about every exoskeleton and id probably be wishing states were a little smaller  

wishing you would tell me about ted hughes and what went on in his mind  

the word pseudonym has gotten stuck in my hair ever since a couple months ago, on the side of the street somewhere in tacoma  

little neon lit benches reflecting familiar feelings, remembering trailing after my father on iced over puddles  

i talked about 4runners once in a google doc about a week ago and now i see them everywhere 

so if only i could find a way to talk about you less maybe i could attach static cliches to your superlative existence and rid my walls of old marked sandwich bags  

start up my obsession with paved walkways and a 4.0 gpa  

maybe then i'll play the violin better, read piano sheet music again, or smile  

“performance”  

such an odd concept, no? 

i write awful poems in the back of my notebooks about boys and pot and emails  

nothing that doesn't resonate, but nothing you would understand  

and i start to think about what's better  

wishing for you in the week and wanting him on the weekends  

or kissing you on the cheek and loving him when the day ends  

i asked myself about illustration and animated pictures 

the image of my hand placed on his face creeping up through every illogical schema 

revisiting every line delivered with ease and an undertone of a hangover  

wondered about earthworms and anthropology,  

about the surgery he told me about, fresh scar across his chest, lugging my backpack around to the health class i was late to 

something about it was archaic, deriving from divine humor, 

 it was the perfect picture of what our life would be like in michigan  

i chalked it up so well in my head, 2 down, 78 years to go 

i have to pee but there aren't bathrooms on the 4th floor  

i want to be held but we aren't in the pierce parking lot  

and we’re not lip syncing Hymn by Josh Dillon wondering who will kiss who first  

we’re not 17 and 18  

we’re not me and him  

we’re me and you  

god, this is an awful poem  

about longing for a boy who smoked pot and hated me truly   

Blessed be the heavy heavenly happy pills!  

The Medicaid medicates through glittering 

bottles of golden Champaign. To unblurry  

one’s vision from the buzzing static made  

by the mosquitos swarming my split head.  

Restitching my head even though it will be 

in vain for all it does is slow down Lady  

Death who has been in a hurry to reunite  

with an old friend to feel their warmth once  

more to fend off the cold of this world.  

but when they leave the time bomb begins  

                                                                                                  ticking where the heart should be again. 

Making the red wires around the arms 

be visible again and asks to be slain.  

To be drained of the red wine in it 

to stop staining the purity 

around us and face 

no more blame 

for high  

bills. 

                                             Cursed be the heavy happy pills 

                                                           whose bills are making hills of white 

                                        that look like the dead covered in white silk in the morgue. 

                                                          So ill they taste like a lover puking in my mouth. 

                                                            Making me cringe- crumple my face 

                                                     like a suicide note in the trash can 

                                         after it is read by those who found the dead. 

                                                                   But I always swallow it down to tune out 

                                     the suffocation within my head.  

                                                            Letting me breath slowly 

                                                         only to drown me again later. 

. 

You left me behind   

Yet I see you everywhere  

You are not here  

Yet I feel you  

Sun kisses my cheek as I leave for work  

It is you  

Dragon flies whisk by my tired ankles  

That is how you say hello  

Our sad good bye   

Now developed into a language not described  

It is not in dictionaries, encyclopedias, or recorded science  

Yet you are here  

Letting me know you miss me too  

Some may call me crazy, I know that I am not  

This is the language,  

You left me  

But you blessed me   

With everything beautiful  

I ponder on how you have seen her, 

That woman in your wall 

She lurks and hides and cries as you say 

Such a pity the way you feel her  

Your wallpaper yellowed by her presence 

A shadowy mark of rot and decay 

Your wallpaper smells of mildew and age  

You have no idea about this room of mine 

My wallpaper is pretty and blue 

that smell of many years gone by still lingers though 

You see my pretty blue paper has merely been pasted over yours 

But don’t you worry now, the woman is still there 

You and I both know as long as these walls stand 

She will live there, writhing  

Yellow ugly flowers or pretty blue bows 

She hangs  

The flowers rot but the bows mold just as well 

Such a pity  

I don’t feel her like you did  

The paper is thick as it blocks out the stench 

But recently I fear the someone has come in to peel back the layers

You are always in the company of the earth, 

Ok but where does the politics come into our conversation?  

Politics is an important route for trauma.  

We have a Lot of political fights saving water,  

(People locking gates behind me. Friday lull in yard noise, traffic up to the homes up on the plateau past Viewpoint park) 

I time travel 

I am a shape shifter 

I have uncountable shadows 

I gave  birth to you 

You mean Mother Rainier? 

- as a climber I find I have been gazing at Rainier and counting the glaciers I know, the rocky knolls and whitecoveredridges  

Humans travel over me too, just so you know.. ;) 

And you are sweating me out from brother fire the sun right now 

10-24-24 1:56pm high tide 

What is the good way to talk about you with others, and what shall I call you… given you are the water that fills Qʷiqʷəlut, but you are more than Qʷiqʷəlut? 

Not everything has a name 

Not everything has a shape 

My patterns are infinite 

My connection to you is infinite  

But I have a presence, whatever the tide 

You called me inlet, which is more idea than substance 

Go look into how first people decided on names… why were things named before the settlers came and wanted them to fix a name. 

What is Qʷiqʷəlut a part of? 

- Yesterday I looked and this place was mapped as mudflats treaty land, the always covered mud begins behind me 100-200 yards away 

I rest on sediment that shifts. I depend on the resistance of each grain. I am not river, nor bay, nor ocean 

I hold the light that you are using to write my names onto your phone  

The thousand named insects don’t care about their names, they care about nectar, protein, carbon, mineral 

We are relentless and unnamed 

But people need us, for safe harbor, after pulling canoes under cliffs and broken beaches, we nestle amongst the grasses we feed, we eddy and regenerate food for others, the clams and the grasses, the Oregon Grape, the sap from the needles of the pine behind you.  

We are shelter from the wind  

People will forget my name but never my gifts. 

- I mean no disrespect when I call your many names, tideflats, delta, whulge, Qʷiqʷəlut, inlet, Rhône Poulenc.. it is my way of honoring your gifts… so how do I decide on one? 

Must you decide? You were just thanking the families that were guardians of these flats in your invocation… more that a Tribal treaty name, people integrated with the land since time immemorial  

Older languages can teach you new perspectives, can grant you insight into other ontologies, like the ontology of inlet/Qʷiqʷəlut /Rhône Poulenc altogether all at once. I am always more than a little marsh 

Tell more stories about me and you will find that I am part inlet part coyote 

Birds name me as they set their navigation for the far north  

I can move people to agree that there are no real boundaries,  

that I was here before the marsh, that  

I will be here when I swallow the marsh. 

She sleeps, yet strength still lingers deep, 
A mountain wrapped in dreams so steep. 
Her spirit stirs, her heartbeat calls, 
As dawnlight paints the glacier walls. 

Her breath, a song of seal and sand, 
Carving life into this beloved land. 

A figure rises, bold yet wise, 
The fire of culture in her eyes. 
Draped in stories, woven bright, 
A kuspuk shimmering with ancient light.  

Her face is calm, yet fierce with knowing, 
A river of wisdom, quietly flowing. 

 Feathers of eider brush her brow, 
Dreaming of journeys still allowed. 
An iqyax̂ hums beneath her skin, 
A vessel of stories held within. 

Awaken now, let voices soar, 
The songs of Unangax̂ rise once more. 

 Drums become the ocean’s roar, 
Bentwood halos dance to the lore. 
We claim our place, our truth we speak, 
With love, with strength, with all we seek. 

Respect, responsibility, 
Reciprocity in unity. 
Relevance in what we weave, 
A future bright—we still believe.