“Henry at Henry” by Maria Garcia Teutsch
Henry Rollins has rocked my world for as long as I can remember. When I first heard him sing with Black Flag my body hummed for hours afterwards. Read More >
Propaganda and the Alphabet
1) In my ear they whisper their depraved, bourgeois party line: Read More >
Ways to Divert Rainwater
First, shellac your wide-brimmed hat
with the upturned edges.
Affix it with tubes attached
to bottles on your belt. Go out
in the rain. Feel mud suck
your toes, gravity slurp laces,
tongues flap cotton fields
riven by rain. Build scaffolds
for your shoes. Go inside, take tea,
empty the bottles that remain
and go again out in the rain. Read More >
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
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.