intrusive thoughts

its been a month already, don’t you know

and while I try my best to audiate away

what happened

spending every second minute hour day week

playing music and singing endlessly

somehow

I always come back to the thud/thud/thud

of your fingers on the bar

to the ring/ring/ringing

in my ears

like the aftermath of a sad soprano’s solo

(you yelled so loud)

to the sloppy slush sound of my brain

colliding with my skull

as you

rattled me round

like so much sand in a maraca.

 

 

and somehow

No matter how many times I sing

or scream

or beg

my skin still sinks back into the form of your

hard heavy hands

on my face on my waist

that feeling of being frozen as my insides melt

a puddle in your greasy gritty palms

as you gather my legs into yours

your knees leaving dents in mine

 

 

And some nights

when I’m still trying to scrub the smell of you

out of

my skin my hair my soft palate

the trickle of water down the curve of

my face my waist

reminds me of the ocean that poured from your seafoam eyes

while you did everything

and

the smooth oval of your face

intrudes into the blank space behind my eyes

 

 

and once again I’m singing endlessly

frozen as my insides melt

with the sloppy slush sound of my brain

bashing against my skull

as you drag my face to yours

and our foreheads clack together with a click

and my hair is a puddle in your greasy gritty palms

 

and the ring/ring/ringing in my ears

is the only distraction from

the feeling of each of your fingers

reaching around my face like spider’s legs

your middle finger digging into the back of my ear

(could you feel the thud/thud/thud of my heart)

as you rattle me round

like so much sand in a maraca

every second minute hour day week

since last month.

 

 

devour

have you ever seen a man eat a peach?

after long days of work,

his forearms stained with inky grime

as he sits, knees apart, muscles twitching

to feast on the life of the peach?

 

 

have you ever seen a man eat a peach?

seen him pluck her tenderly from where she lay

take that soft gold body in his hands

smooth a thumb across her velvet skin

as he contemplates his feast

on the life of the peach?

 

 

have you even seen a man eat a peach?

how he rolls her in his hands

finally settling in to cup her round body in his thick hands

squeezing her insides to her pitted spine

and with wide grin and dripping lips

sinks his teeth in

to devour the life of the peach?

 

 

and now that you know how

a man devours a peach

seen how the muscles in his forearms

flex inwards and bow outwards

as he crushes her body

seen the life of the peach drip down

his face his throat

her insides spilled over his hands

flecks of gold velvet still in his teeth

 

tell me

have you ever been

a peach?

today

today is a hard day

hard and crunching and cracked

like the gravel on that middle path

where you greeted me

 

 

today is a hard day

like Samson I thought I slept among friends

only to wake up alone

to a bald head and barren lands

 

 

today is a hard day

hard and crunching and cracked

the sound of my voice or

the sound your straw made as

you twirled it in your iced coffee

 

 

today is a hard day

you heard it in my cracked voice

as I crunched cool tears back behind my eyelids

to try and talk to you.

and you know and know and you always knew

what was really wrong

the din hidden just on the other side

of this round face and these painted lips

 

 

but you try and you try and you try

to tease to talk to treat

to coax away the voices

of my mom of my ex-boyfriend of all those people

those resounding words of exclusion

 

 

and today was a hard day

but the sun kissing our faces

brightened my day

and that scent of

honeysuckle and fresh water and sunshine on the mount

the sound of your voice

the blue of your eyes when they peer into mine

the warm soft safe place that is your embrace

these are what light these sunset eyes

and these are the air in my lungs

and these

the gold honey of your voice

the gentle grip of your hands

the way your face is filled with love when you smile

these are things which carry me

 

on days like today

when I am hard and cracked and crunching

like the gravel on middle path

on the day we first met

four years ago.

disappointment

between us right now

this feeling, is like

that uncanny valley between hurt and rage

a place you’ve never walked

But is engraved with the footsteps

of men and women with round faces and high cheeks and brown skin

just like mine.

 

 

between us right now

this feeling, is like

the time I stepped onto an anthill

and a thousand brine lipped insects

poured forth and sank

their teeming mouths into my baby flesh

 

 

 

between us right now

this feeling, is like

the day I first stepped foot into the sea

And felt it, vicious

Bite back.

 

 

between us right now

this feeling, is like

that day working the makeup counter

when another latinx strode up to me and asked

if I could get her a foundation, one

“that didn’t make her look like an Indian”

as if we looking like our forefathers

looking Native

was the worst thing that could happen to us.

 

between us right now

this feeling, is like

every moment I’ve ever looked into blue eyes

and felt the void, gazing back.

 

between you and I right now

is every other gringo

with a sly mouth and cloudy eyes and hard jaw

so willing to say things to us

things like don’t worry or  you’re beautiful

or sometimes when I’m really lucky

And your mouth is dripping and your sharp teeth glistening

with want once again

to own worlds that aren’t yours

you even say things like I love you

 

And just like every other one of us

Struggling to breathe in the space between the wall and your body

I’ll sit there and I’ll smile and I’ll look into those frosted eyes

every next time the next person

with your skin and your eyes and your privilege

mentions what they think Caitlyn Jenner’s real name should be

or how the latest fascist isn’t really problematic or

how much our feelings don’t matter

or at least, they don’t matter enough to you

to keep you from sliding into the next white feminist

with DIY bangs and bad excuses

 

 

between us right now

this feeling, is like

the vast expanse between our lives

where you loving us is always optional

and we have to love you, just to survive.

 

 

 

 

on the late night

All Father, father of my family

the start of everything I am and the end of everything I ever will be

sometimes

I think of you

late at night when I’m trapped in White Man’s Land

 

I think of everything that I’ve done

the friendships carefully crafted

the books I’ve read

book spines peeled open from reading

all the essays that these hands

hands made in your image

have written.

 

I think of the family that I left behind

in that far away city

like when you would leave Mother Creation

in that little house of white adobe

while you lead men and cattle through the great north.

 

Sometimes I am struck with thinking

in that red clay where you and

Mother Creation

formed this face and this body

round and strong

like a clay pot filled with pure water.

 

I think of all the things I’ve made

of all the things unmade

of the hate that some have for me

of the love of others save for me

 

I think of the words formed

on this mouth that’s a carbon copy of your own

these lips that confront the impossibilities of being

and not being

here in the north.

 

Sometimes I am struck with thinking

all the sunlit day and the cool night

of

this Mexican blood

this Chicana voice, high pitched and loud

this indigenous body

broad and brown and bold

 

Sometimes when I see myself

reflected in those blue eyes

of pale face men who swear

that they love me they love me they love me

my skin enlaced

with that blue tinge

like Malintzin

when she was between the arms

of he who toppled Moctezuma

 

All Father,

 

when I get to thinking

I lay there and I ask myself

Are you proud of me?

 

 

 

 

pensamientos

Papa Grande, padre de mi familia

el comienso de todo lo que soy y todo lo que sere

a veces

pienso de ti

en las noches aqui atrapada in gringolandia

 

pienso en todo lo que he hecho

las amistades que he formado

los libros que he leido

los ensayos que estos manos

formado en tu imagen

han escrito.

 

pienso en la familia que  he abandonado

en un pueblo lejano

como cuando tu dejabas a Mama Concepcion

en esa casita de adobe blanca

mientras tu cabalgabas por el Norte.

 

A veces me quedo pensando

en esa tierra rojiza donde tu y

Mama Concepcion formaron

Esta cara y este cuerpo

redondeada y fuerte

como un jarro de agua pura.

 

Pienso en todo lo que he hecho

en todo lo desecho

en el desprecio que me tienen unos y

el amor que me tienen otros

 

Pienso en esas palabras

formaron en esta boca parecida a la tuya

que enfrentan imposibilidades

de ser o no ser

aqui en el Norte.

 

A veces me quedo pensando todo el santo dia y

toda la noche entera

en esta sangre Mexicana

esta voz Chicana aguda y feroz

este cuerpo indigena

ancho y marron y magnifico

 

A veces cuando me miro

reflejada en esos ojos azules

de hombres palidos que juran

que me aman que me aman que me aman

mi piel envuelta

en esa tinta azulada

semejante Malintzin

cuando estubo entre esos brasos

Que tumbo a Moctezuma

 

A veces en esto me quedo pensando, Papa Grande,

Y me pregunto

¿Estas orgullosa de mi?

Carry on, My Wayward Son (The River)

Carry on, my wayward son

your crooked smile, gnarled dogtooth, will beguile

the huddled masses

 

Carry on, my wayward son

 your complexion that requires constant reflection

that deepest shade of jaded race

 

Carry on, my wayward son

 let not the hate of the world burden your shoulder, move the boulder

equality is one step closer

 

Carry on, my wayward son

your bright speeches eaten up by the young, a resounding drum

in the grey of post-consumerist society

 

Carry on, my wayward son

encapsulate the struggle, shown the humble

suffering of the good, and instigated change.

Carry on, my wayward son

It takes time to reach across the aisle, to move the sea

so ingrained in its habits.

 

Carry on, my wayward son

It takes time to teach, to reach 

those who have always been taught to fear the dark.

 

Carry on, my wayward son,

there’s hope, so long as you smile

that the world can one day be yours.

just dip your feet in,

submerge yourself one day at a time

into the river of life.