Roots thick as blood

Tied to the vows of the womb we shared

A woman’s bond coiled in cold intentions.

Suffocate a moon-time flow of a new direction.

Heartbeat in the background Tells us of the time we do not have.

Regressed by a memory. 

Drowned by a dream.

Is my psyche playing tricks on me? 

Blood and memory  – 

The foundation of the altercation.

You. My legacy’s contention. 


The Key

I heard your key press into the lock. It seemed a lifetime as the metal scaled and scraped the walls of the labyrinth for the end. A twist in the right direction and the cold clunk of the bolt as it breathed its release. Chills creep up my skin as you maneuver and manipulate our rugged old handle; too kinked from the cold this time of year. Chills. Wind sweeps in through the break of two worlds. My stare seems to lift you as my eyes drift from your soles to your soul. You smell the stiffness in the air and run to hold me. Do not leave, your body aches as it squeezes mine. Do not run away. But I stare at the key, stuck, but still swinging on the open door.

Soul Searching

Our souls can’t bear to be apart. 

Mine kicks to be released from this confinement through the palm of my hand


She needs to find yours.

My soul screams your name, 

Receives phantom squeezes in bed,

walks to the tip of my tongue to drop off your name with three soft kisses. 




Until you return.

The sounds of shattered glass could not be heard on the floor, for our hearts were there no more. Constantly giving in to your will, our hearts began to shrill. They peeled away their skin to provide yours with protection. Like the girl I was before, I held out my arms and opened my door, welcoming her out of your protection – released of those convictions and restrictions. She is not yours anymore. She has a home where you are no more.

The Culture of My Men

You are not from the culture of my men.

You have charm that does not whistle or honk at my features. Instead, you praise the thickness of my thighs with a poem from your own lips.

You do not attempt to impress my father by talking sports. Instead, you listen to him complain about work and prompt him to persist in venting; remembering every detail.

You do not pick the pieces of my broken life and judge their placement. Instead, you have allowed all those experiences to be everything you love about me.

You do not dare bother with other guys in my life, as if they mean to hurt us. Instead, you embrace my personality and encourage human connection.

You welcome every one with a handshake and a thank you, pridefully practicing a language foreign and unnatural to your lips. 

You are not entertained by the simple minded, yet care for all the simple pleasure. You stare into the silence and do not dare interrupt it.

You have eyes that split into rays of the sun. Colors that grasp for my brown and highlight your hazel. Laugh lines that could hold fields of flowers. A toothy grin with a suspect of suspense, while you suckle on your bottom lip. Cheeks that have seen repair. Ears that have heard beats of a busted drum. Thin cookie-colored hair that toasted perfectly in your mother’s womb. And a thin frame, not muscular enough to be manly, too tall to be usual, too light to be Latino, but beautiful; so beautiful. And yet not… not of the culture of my men.

Diamonds of the Desert

Hushed mind for eternity. Kisses danced over the dusty darkness of the night. Freedom roamed. Energy bloomed in the full, midnight moon. Arms wrapped around twice for comfort and a cactus pricked my finger for the blood of the covenant we now hold. Mountain rocks shimmered in our eyes and the stars reflected off them all the light of our future. We dipped and weaved through the palm fronds and found each other amidst the dirt and diamonds of the desert.