Oct 16 2017

You there in the corner of the forest–

I am the singer of moss and black stones.

Read More >

Jul 1 2017

Skyscrapers and the dead.
Breath is exhaust fumes and dirt. Read More >

May 14 2017

Are the children opening mouths like hungry saxophones
Clamoring for bread from my bread music? Read More >

Nov 10 2016

revolution cover

Here’s a groovy interview with me conducted by Climate Activist, Dan Linehan for Monterey Poetry Review

Nov 2 2016

Smooth hands are suspect.
I love the way your hands
snag my silk blouses.
Sandpaper calluses are kisses.

I have tortilla-making hands,
and fingernails with chipped red polish.
My hands are tattooed with the ink of poems.
They touch moonlight
on your cheek while you sleep.

Originally published in The Sierra Nevada Review

 

Nov 1 2016

Not the Sound a Drum Makes
Her son’s last name pounds “little drum.”
Beat of heart, rain on flat rock,
his father’s voice.

Her maiden name is her father’s name, obvious I know: Mexican tiles, adobe mouths that could say more.

Her mother’s name cries Southern wind on white porches. Tobacco teepees drying death. Black-eyed peas.

Her first name screams long-suffering virgin. Pieta. Crosses made of abalone on the roadside—

She learns how to spell a new name—
The sun says it’s green. Her last name
fields red circles, blue cloth, not the sound a drum makes.

Sep 28 2016

The shadow winks behind

a green iridescent hummingbird

 

who flits across yellow blossoms

and jade eucalyptus leaves.

 

Winter rain drizzles down the tree.

The negative space of silver

 

between branches of thought —

death’s silhouette.

 

Originally published in the “Inhabitants” issue of  Redeft

Aug 21 2016

The Piñata

Cold rain turned my shirt
into paper maché.

I tried to hold it away
from the mound of each breast.

Your warm palms traced their shape,
and you told me I was beautiful,

all wet and streaming.
I believed you.

 

Originally Published in The Two Review

Jun 23 2016

Boom, Boom, Boom, Satellite of Love

She hands him a tiny poem on a small card. He looks at her and says, “You really are a poet, do your parents know this?” He’s a physicist, the small kind of physics, like angstrom small, not astro big.
He tells her ether is an invention of poets. She says if you think it’s real then it’s real. He laughs, says she’s too rational for him. Brings her flowers tied with a purple ribbon. She resists for a while but then succumbs. They create a tiny universe too small to be seen without a microscope. They float out on a dust mote where  galaxies swirl within galaxies.

messier

Text version published in Leaf by Leaf

Multi-media version published in Porter Gulch Review

May 6 2016

Shooting by breastfeeding mother latest case of self-defense

 

in an amendment

to the second amendment

breast milk will replace guns–

daisies to replace bullets,

and mother’s will keep their sons.

 

 

Forthcoming publication in Poetry International