To Speak On My Mother’s Death
This is a choice. This is the insult. This is carelessness of a system and a society.
Archives: People
Our Archipelago
In the countryside, a platoon of peasants torch a backhoe, / owned by Del Monte, gutting our people’s ancestral land.
I TRY TO WRITE THE DEAD BLUE WHALE, PARTIALLY BURIED IN THE SAND OF TIBURÓN
From its jaw, Héctor peels a sample of skin. Cuts baleen from its mouth. My body is in waves. The urge to turn from this great unspooling overtakes me.
I Call From Everywhere to Everywhere:
Friend. To practice one’s true self is to grow brave for consequence. Friend. I am here for honorable acts. Friend. I am sitting at JFK again.
