I don’t remember the moment I first realized other men also carried stampedes of forked ghosts sewn into layers of their skin. Or took Picasso’s Guernica in the form of injections. Bloodstreams becoming slaughterhouse runoff. The signs are everywhere I look. A tattoo of an artillery shell on a male ER nurse’s inner forearm. A salty puddle of whispering blood left on the pavement. Moonlight shot out on a block darker than the inside of a white whale’s mouth. My mother would see tennis shoes hanging from a wire and say it meant war like a storm blooming hollow in the gray mind of the wind.
///
I once watched a man, through a black security door, doing lines of coke on a table: inside of the same kitchen I used to eat at as a child: inside the same house with the front yard where my father used to pitch Wiffle balls for me to hit. The table wasn’t black, but if it had been, I wonder if it would’ve made me think of a zebra’s back.
///
Two brown boys were recently shot dead while sitting in a van in the parking lot of a nearby elementary school. There were a half a dozen flashes from a weapon firing on them and it was all caught on footage by a neighbor’s surveillance camera. Now people leave white candles near the spot where the boys’ muted light fell and cracked our hearts into flocks of migratory birds. Some say even their guardian angels were donning bulletproof vests.
///
I can still see horses pasturing in the hills: one white one and three brown ones that appear black under the swollen rose gray clouds. I wonder if they can feel the cold imprint of the neighborhood on their coats. In my head I can hear their hoof beats which sound more like giant men taking axes to bone. I imagine their past lives being transformed by raw heat. Their brains turning into black glass. Their heads becoming burning voids of matter and woodsmoke. Their vitrified fragments like abstract shadows hardened from the bitter ashes of consciousness. Each becoming another exit wound to shape in our names. Or another weapon for us to hold against the bulbed throat of the sun.
Anuel Rodriguez is a Mexican-American poet living in the San Francisco Bay Area. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, DREGINALD, decomP, The Acentos Review, and elsewhere.
you stopped your cart in front of a Lady of Guadalupe mural surrounded by prickly
pear cactus and rose bushes Pray for usit pleads to the left of the portrait to the right desperate altars gather
you a fruit vendor
refuses to have her
picture taken
a blue and red
apron an unassum-
ing rosary around
your wrist and a Tejas
baseball cap hiding
your distressed hair
scrunched up nose
and sincere smile
not an image you
want to perpetuate
for women out there
a gift upside down prayer cards no charge are placed
next to the watermelon cucumber and limes
attracting the worst kind of failures the dreamers
melon slices coated with chili powder one foam cup shaved ice
a slicing knife in one hand a dying hand in the other
a mural is vandalized by your own blood your miracle is late.
Fernando Gomez grew up in the Segundo Barrio in El Paso, TX. He studied English and Philosophy at the University of Texas at Austin and currently studies Professional Poetry Writing at the University of Denver University College. Fernando considers himself a public intellectual and is passionate about social and cultural issues. His poetry is drawn to the thoughts of shame, vulnerability, and compassion that enter the edifice of the night.
I put on the mask. The lover, comical Masakatsu, swinging the Seki
no Magoroku, asking, Where is the carotid, Kimitake? Think of Gentileschi
in Judith Slaying Holofernes (1620) hacking her mentor’s neck, that astonished rapist
Agostino Tassi. So, the earth in ultimate action is a ritual
apothegm: Rise, said Apuleius. Suffer the rose . . . One has to
choose to live. Your biography. Try to stare into it, the liquid
you suckled from a blue tube to nurse into Mitsuko’s mouth, your sister
in a coma in a Keio hospital quarantine, age 17. The diagnosis: contaminated
well-water and lice. Lice! Everything meaningless is appetite— My nightly regimen, facial
cream and Ambien. Let’s top it off, I think, with pink Atripla! How else resist the puzzlement of being
one long sexual rehearsal for a last meal of boar’s meat and beer, a plug of cotton
so they won’t find another corpse in a mess of self-awareness— a bureaucracy;
what boredom. Reclining on a leather chaise, I watch you stab the fiction. I’ll finish you
myself. The light is peak. The waves, pathological— blood splashing out
of the decapitated eel of your cut gut, Yukio Mishima! The jet splatters, until I’m a portrait—
Miguel Murphy is most recently the author of Detainee, a collection of poetry. He lives in Southern California where he teaches at Santa Monica College
On a black machine in the exam room, I read the words right/isthmus. I only knew isthmus, as narrow body of land, water on two sides, home to my great-grandparents, their bodies black machines that dug the canal where two oceans now meet.
I carry that isthmus in my body.
A fine needle pierces my neck, digs through nodules clumped like hard earth to the isthmus in my throat, bridge to the voice I have not used. Like those before me, I hope to find new life on the other side.
Jenise Miller is the daughter of Black Panamanian immigrants and descendant of Panama Canal builders. Her experiences moving from place-to-place and as an urban planner inspire her writing about place identity. A Pushcart-nominated poet and Voices of Our Nations Arts (VONA) alumna, she is the author of the poetry chapbook, The Blvd, and has published work in KCET Artbound, Boom California, Cultural Weekly, Dryland Literary Journal, and the Acentos Review. She lives in Compton with her family.
The agents streamed quietly away from the street in teams of four and ranged before the houses. A few porch lights ticked on when they ascended the first creaking steps, but once beneath the overhangs they were shrouded in semi-darkness once again.
Christmas bulbs pulsed dimly. Gutters sang. Houses groaned in the cold. A tinfoil star that hung from the eaves batted against a pillar. A wind chime sprinkled its music softly. A few dogs barked.
Headlights dipped twice from the street. The agents pulled their guns. They were careful to keep the safeties on. They wanted to inflict fear, not casualties. Never give the media gross examples that could be grossly exaggerated. But if you had to, be sure you could cover it up. That way the brass wouldn’t be gored on the horns of a dilemma.
They nodded to each other . . . took great deep chuffing breaths . . . and the first series of peremptory knocks went staggering all down the line. Soon the entire block resounded with harsh volleys as agents pounded against doors. Dogs howled and barked furiously, and every porch was illuminated.
Chucho was the first to open the door. When he turned the knob, the screws shot from the lock plate and he was propelled backward by a pair of black-clad figures who crabbed their shoulders and dove in low, butting against him as if he were a blocking sled on the gridiron. With bull-like grunts they pinioned him to the wall. Two more men burst into the room like beetles with their guns drawn, tramping over the floor with such force that they cracked the hard-finish plaster.
—ICE! ICE! Don’t fucking move!
—You crazy? Cruzado shouted, —Don’t shoot!
Thick black smoke was now general in the kitchen as a bright orange flame stood from the pan. The alarm plastered to the ceiling whined disconcertingly.
One of the agents had the presence of mind to smother the flame with a dishcloth and the faucet water splooshing into the pan created a fine hissing steam that reeked strongly of rancid meat. A terrified Miguel Angel tried to scuttle beneath the table, but he was checked by a hard shoulder and thundered against the wall, empty bottles clattering to the floor and beans springing as if on a trampoline.
—Where you going, big boy?
Everyone had to practically scream to be heard over the importunate alarm.
Miguel Angel was wrestled to his feet by three agents. They tied handkerchiefs around their faces to keep out the smoke. They looked like a highway gang out to rob a train bearing bricks of gold.
—Qué pasa aquí, ah? a winded Miguel Angel said.
—You’re under fucking arrest, that’s what kay pasa.
His wrists were bound behind him with plastic restraints, along with a dazed Cruzado and Chucho.
An agent flung open the window in the bathroom while another ripped down the cardboard masking the front and elbowed away the remaining glass, trying to relieve the place of smoke
—We do nothing wrong, Chucho said, coughing.
—You can’t come in here like this. We sue the shit out of you!
—That’s rich, an agent holding a printout said, voice muffled through his sleeve.
—This you, right? Machado Ventura?
He showed Chucho the blurred image of himself.
—What is this? Chucho said, squinting. Tears streamed from his reddened eyes.
—See what happens when you don’t pay your parking tickets?
—You arresting me for this! Chucho said.
—You’re the one who opened the door, numbnuts, a capless agent said. A hairy mole like a third eye was stamped in the middle of his brow. Two agents patted Chucho and Cruzado down and shucked out their wallets. Another agent cracked the alarm into silence with his baton. Smoke hung motionless against the ceiling, as if loath to depart. They all heard the cannonading of burst doors and the shattering of windows. People screamed.
—This is good work here, the capless agent said. He examined their licenses admiringly. —Where’d you get this done? Over at the collision garage on Mendieta street, right? What’s that again?
—Fat Daddy’s Videos and Tires, another agent piped in.
—Fat Daddy’s, that’s right, the capless agent said. —The man’s an artist.
—But they take me a picture at the Motor Vehicles! Cruzado said. —Soy legal!
There must have been at least another half dozen agents packed into the kitchen and the adjoining living room. They swelled toward the front door.
—Been havin’ quite the party here, huh? an agent with a whisk-broom mustache said, tearing down the bed sheet to Chucho’s bedroom and peering inside.
—Donde están las
drogas? Pistolas? Señoritas? He rifled through Chucho’s things, knocking over a
bedside lamp.
—En la crica de tu madre, Cruzado said through his teeth.
—We no do nothing! Chucho said.
Commotion through the walls, furniture toppling, the faint boom of manhandled bodies.
—You cannot do this! Miguel Angel said. —We’re not criminals!
—How do I know you ain’t a criminal alien? Or a stone-cold killer?
For a terrified second Miguel Angel thought a goat’s head was jawing back at him until he realized that it was an agent with a tussock beard hanging from his chin.
—I’m a citizen!
—Where’s your ID?
—In my pocket, Miguel Angel said.
—Anything gonna stick me?
—Like what? Miguel Angel said.
—Needle. A fucking dildo, the agent said.
—I think my wife borrow mine.
—You got jokes.
The agent impatiently rifled through his pants.
—Bupkis.
—Shit, Miguel Angel said.
—You can shit yourself after processing. Let’s go.
—But I leave my license at home!
—What? Like fuckin Guatemala? Move it, shitheel.
The prisoners were unwillingly towed outside, into chaos. Men and women were dragged from their homes in their boxers and underwear, pajama bottoms, night dresses, negligees, some of them barefoot, their knees scraping against the concrete as they prostrated themselves; they pleaded for their freedom, called for compassion, to no avail.
Some of the agents had waited for the occupants to open their doors before they bashed their way inside; most smashed their way. —Don’t move, motherfucker! they said. —U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement!
They knocked over a vase of red anthuriums and a potted zebra plant in the apartment of Nieves Mastín, who bolted awake screaming. Poor Rosaliá Perea was so frightened by the noise of rupture outside of her room that she fell off her bed and separated her shoulder. She was found with her face against the carpet, weeping in agony. One unfortunate couple was captured while clinched together in the act of love.
Agents tore through the apartment of one family from Michoacán with such violence that a framed painting of the young St. Toribio in his black cassock, enveloped by a shimmer of light, fainted from the wall and splintered.
Mace was sprayed at any animal that appeared on the verge of springing at the agents. A bullmastiff and a Rottweiler who were merely protecting their masters from intruders fell back yipping when a thick mist of peppery spray splashed against their muzzles.
The agents startled babies in their cribs—who bawled their complaints—and routed children from their beds. Abuelitas in their floral nightgowns and abuelitos in plaid pajamas were trampled upon while thoroughly cocooned within their bedding on fold out couches. These elderly shot awake in terror, hair roostered, more than a few flooded with memories of the terror squads, grim men in balaclavas brandishing machetes and Galil submachine guns. They tried to steady their shuddering breaths, reached blindly for their nitro pills to slow their machine-gunning hearts.
Two children, seeing their loved ones led out by men with guns, felt the ground being cut out from underneath them. Why were they being severed from their family? Did Mrs. Rufino tell mommy that he fell asleep during Social Studies? Did the police find out that she stole Pixy Stix from Lucito’s bodega? They knotted up their fists and screeched their eyes out and tottered where they stood. A seemingly tenderhearted young agent swooped the two children into his arms and bore them aloft and cradled their heads against his chest and loped to the street.
Agents recited the statutes in a low monotone, stoic and implacable, almost buzzing in the ears of their captives. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to an attorney.
The mandated laws dictated their language. Their training put their hearts on ice.
Miguel Angel, Chucho, and Cruzado were pushed down the walk, toward the waiting vans in the street. They were shocked by what they saw. When Miguel Angel balked, stating that he would go no further, he was kicked in the back and stumbled forward. Enraged, he thrashed about, swinging his head, hoping to catch at least one of the agents beneath the chin. Three encircled him. They rapped his knees with their batons, and he buckled. He was dealt a blow square to the forehead and fell to the ground, groaning. A school of flame tetra swam before his eyes. He turned and barked vomit.
Dead ahead another fracas had developed between Pepito Tamayo and four agents, and they gang-tackled him, upending a decrepit old newsbox that went tumbling over with a crash. Out whipped an unbundled mass of the Final Call that some Black Israelite had pressed into service and sheets went wheeling down the street, headlines broadcasting WHITEY DONE TOOK IT ALL! They piled on top of Pepito and when they bore him up they had him trussed like a slaughtered caiman.
Neighbors who did not suffer violent eviction had poured out into the streets in droves. Cell phones were up in the air, recording.
—Terorismo!
—Brutos! Animales!
—Go to the hell, bastard!
—You do this to the white peoples on Gianari Drive?
Sirens blared and revolving top-lights the color of freshly shed blood swashed over the scene. Amparo Saltes, in a shabby velveteen robe, was dragged howling from a porch where she had wrapped her legs about a pillar. She spouted chapter and verse as if this were her shield. Children cried, bug-eyed with terror, shivering in the morning cold. Faces were lacquered in fear-sweat, so pale they looked green, contorted in pain like gargoyles. Why are you doing this? was the constant question bellowed in both English and Spanish. Cipriano Novarro, who had gotten up early, was led away in restraints with a half-shaved face. He looked shell-shocked, the drying cream on his cheek flying away like ash.
A few were bloodied and bruised. One poor man who was pulled from an accessory apartment belowground wore a smock of blood against his thickly matted chest; he feverishly cried out for Dios, Jesus, La Virgin, Los Tres Reyes de Cologne, he cried out for San Judas and St. Lazarus, he listed prayers, enumerated martyrs, he gibbered and ranted, and by the time they stuffed him into the van this poor maddened Evangelist was reeling forth the twelve tribes of Israel in a high-pitched caterwaul. One of the agents, driven into a rage by his verbal hysterics, starched him. The blow to the back of his ear was precise. He virtually went to pieces like flakeboard and melted sideways on the bench. There they left him, chained and shackled.
The prisoners who were not spitting cotton from their mouths out of fear tried to barter with the impassive ICE, one woman in desperation thrusting a screaming baby into an agent’s face, but the man merely continued to stride arrogantly through the scrum. Two ambulances arrived on scene, paramedics wearing Code Blue gloves scrambling with their gurneys. A few of the elderly who had fainted dead away were lifted and strapped in and quickly shunted off, along with a still weeping Rosaliá Perea. Miguel Angel and Chucho and Cruzado were force-marched through the bedlam. Miguel Angel felt as if crushed stone was in his kneecaps. Blood trickled from a cut on his brow.
—Miguel? Estás bien, hombre? Cruzado said.
Miguel Angel mumbled dazedly in response, vomit drooling from his chin.
—Miguel! Cruzado said.
—’Toy bien, ‘toy bien, Miguel Angel said. He spat and smoothed his chin on his shoulder. The crack against his coco wasn’t serious, but it was enough to make him feel shaky.
A fire truck arrived with brazen sound power, and men wearing harried protective gear climbed out of the beast and speedily unrolled a hose, which they clamped to the unsealed hydrant. Water shot over the roiling crowd, adding to the confusion. People scurried out of the way. It wasn’t certain if the fire department was summoned to break up the crowd. The powerful jet was directed into Chucho’s apartment, from which smoke still issued weakly.
Miguel Angel, Chucho, Cruzado, and guiding agents were suddenly bottlenecked by the multiplying crowd when they were curbside. They were jostled, bumped, bobbed back and forth like corked bottles in a tumultuous sea. Chucho’s face was draining of color, his eyeballs stark in his head, arms flung helplessly.
—Homeland Security! one of the agents hollered, though he was difficult to hear over the deafening noise —Get the fuck back! He brandished a canister of mace, while the two others used their batons to push back the more aggressive members of the crowd.
By now day had sprung; the streets were aluminized, and the sky grew less sinister. Black and white SUVs blistered onto the scene, sirens pealing. Uniformed officers with Motorola walkie-talkies squeezed in their fists rushed to hold back the possible rioters. None of them brandished batons or guns, nor were they dressed in full-fledged riot gear.
A liaison officer was immediately dispatched to communicate directly with the crowd’s leading flank. She offered conciliatory words, and this kept the crowd somewhat in abeyance.
—Buenos diás, señoras y señores. Mi nombre es Aracely, the liaison officer said through a bullhorn,
—I’m with
Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
—Then you’re a come-mierda! shouted a woman whose face was as red as a strawberry. Others in the crowd echoed her response.
—We understand your concerns, but we ask that you please bare with us, the liaison officer said.
Meanwhile, during these exchanges, ICE agents were able to sieve their way through the crowd. Those prisoners in restraints were quickly shoved into the vans, where they were chained to the bench. Children remained with the agents, who had joined forces with the Brickburn P.D. and were escorted from the vicinity in their SUVs.
The firemen stood watch by their trucks. Police officers posted themselves at the perimeters of the crowd.
—You took my best friend, said a woman in a voice strained with emotion.
—Casi desnuda!
A chorus pitched in for their neighbors.
—Lo Siento. Sinceramente, said the liaison officer. —Some of your friends and neighbors were amongst those accompanying our officers and that’s very unfortunate. But I can promise you that this was for the benefit of your protection.
—Who were you protecting so violent? said an old man, his eyes hidden within deep pouches of flesh. He made a motion like shredding paper in his hands. —I saw officers beating peoples. Are you telling me that was right? That was just?
This agitated the crowd. They snarled for justice, pumping their fists in solidarity. The police formed a wall at either side of the liaison officer. A handful of the crowd chanted a slogan: El muro es caca de burro! The crowd was hitting a new pitch, but Aracely the liaison officer was calm. She lightly flapped her hands in the air as if she were conducting a subtle aria. The crowd eventually quieted down.
—We served warrants, and it is unfortunate but a few of the arrestees did put up violent resistance. Our agents had no other option but to use controlled force. There were minor injuries, but nothing that required hospitalization. I guarantee that our Office of Professional Responsibility will conduct investigations immediately, to root out any improprieties. So please be patient during this difficult time. We promise to maintain open communications with you concerning any developments. Please return to your homes. Our agents will contact each one of you individually once we have gathered all of the facts.
Mollified—worn down— many of the residents dispersed, with the help of none-too-gentle coaxing by the police. A few incensed young bloods remained outside to hurl imaginative curses at the backs of the departing officers and agents.
Chucho, Cruzado, and Miguel Angel were guided into separate units. Chucho, so pale he was gray, was gasping for air.
—Chucho! Cruzado said. —There’s something wrong with Chucho. He needs help!
—You don’t shut the fuck up you’re all gonna need the morgue, an agent said.
—Hey, what did you do to my friend? Miguel Angel said.
—He’s fine, we’ll take care of him, another agent said.
—What’s the matter with you, man? Help him! He can’t fucking breathe!
The van doors shut behind him. Miguel Angel cried out for his friend in an anguished tone. Motherfuckers. Fucking bastards. This dirty turn must have savaged Chucho’s heart.
They were driven from the neighborhood just as the news vans—satellite dishes topping their roofs like gun turrets—swerved to the curbs. It took some time for order to be fully restored. Television journalists with their fuzzy microphones and pancake makeup roved the crowd, cameramen in tow. The ICE liaison delivered her scripted words to the camera, and the few in the neighborhood able to speak gave vent to furious condemnation. Then they were all gone, the news vans back to their stations, the police back to their headquarters, and the people back into their battered homes.
Among the taken were wives, husbands, children, all.
Edwin Rivera-Arias‘s fiction, essays, and poetry have been published in The Global City Review, Ping-Pong, Monkeybicycle, Kweli, the Acentos Review, Juked, Construction Magazine, and the Tupelo Quarterly, among others. He was a Norman Mailer Fiction Fellow and a recipient of the Willapa Bay AiR residency. His full- length play, “In the Palace of the Planet King,” was produced on May 9th, 2019 at the Wild Project in NYC as part of the Downtown Urban Arts Festival. Previously, he worked as a scalehouse operator, laborer, and dockman for a chemical storage facility and oil pipeline company in New Jersey, and was a former member of the United Steelworkers. He currently teaches at the School of Visual Arts in NYC.
it was some eighties relic, with its lavender brake wires and teal candy coating chipped over the rust-filled insides. but it was mine, pulled from junkyard wreckage: scrap metal melted down to silver overwrought river banks, a chained dog’s strained bark in the distance, cars twisted into the bodies of my best friend’s dead friends, so alive and thriving just two years ago. my friend talks about them in the present tense; the way she tells it, they always make it to see Sunday morning. my father told me the other day, this shit makes a man wanna go back to selling drugs. it’s hard out here, he said, all empty pockets and open palms. the bike’s tires used to buzz and whir beneath me, hummingbird wings across cracked pavement, their sprouting weeds growing fertile like my baby cousin’s baby girl, born not long after her fourteenth birthday. she spent all day in a hospital room with pink balloons and somber celebration. i stowed the bike away behind the old YMCA with all my overconfidence, so inconspicuous with its busted frame and slashed seat. 3am and a missing shadow under orange street lamp glow. i took the long walk home, my knuckles white against my keys.
Nadia Mota is a Chicana writer from southeast Michigan. She is an MFA candidate at the Helen Zell Writers’ Program and the recipient of an Academy of American Poets Prize. Nadia is an editor at Viscerama, a digital zine devoted to publishing and supporting Lenawee County youth.
The summer he died, the honey-thick heat melted lizards onto the sidewalk, left them stuck to the concrete like chewing gum. I drove back home when he got sick. I counted the possums splayed out on the pavement, crucified on the broken white line like the martyrs of the highway exit. Driving down the coast, I make a list: red navel oranges with blood-pulp, discounted guns, hard lemons that grow lumps like tumors, a billboard god promising salvation with a phone number. I am reminded— even the Vatican has a gift shop. Angels sing elevator hymns after a voice says hold, please. Every driver in my traffic lane becomes a caller ahead of me trying to get through the busy line, cursing at the sun blinding us through our windshields.
Veronica Silva is a Cuban-American poet who grew up in Miami, and currently lives in Orlando. She is a senior Creative Writing major at the University of Central Florida. Upon graduation, she plans to continue her study and craft of poetry by pursuing an MFA. She is very excited to have her work published for the first time.
shaped into another. The bath I draw just to leave there, full. Surface unbroken. The chickens outside screaming. Nest-bound and raging for the eggs that won’t hatch. My love on a bus. Six men lynched. My love says, It’s the pigs. You can’t tell me it’s not the pigs. And I won’t. When I say, I cannot tell a lie, I mean, I’m rejecting white supremacy. I mean it the way Arlo Guthrie said it— even after his grandfather lynched a mother and son. I cannot tell a lie. There has never been an unsolved murder. Maybe there was the impulse but it isn’t mine to tell. Instead, I kiss the flag he flies and burn the others. Rub his body with a single egg I crack into salted water and flush quickly. Burning bay leaf love. Boiled onion skin and white petal love. I thought the egg would be black. Too afraid to turn a smooth shell against my own skin, I mop myself out of the room. Floors Fabuloso slick and shining my imposter face back at me. My love says the sun can’t burn us, says our curls grow towards God. I cannot tell a lie: passing is a useless distinction. Here I am. Even my father calls me branca— though we do not speak. His father broke the bottle against my father’s back for the miscegenation. My mother’s family violence didn’t shine with blood and lamplight. No, the whites disown quiet as a checkbook balancing, an inheritance reaching back into the pale. What is beyond this? Not whiteness. But whiteness still. I cannot tell a lie. Look into my terrible face and know. If you are what your father is, my father said I couldn’t be his.
Kim Sousa is a Brazilian American poet and open border radical. She was born in Goiânia, Goiás and immigrated to Austin, Texas with her family at age five. Her poems can be found in Poet Lore, EcoTheo Review, Palabritas and elsewhere. Kim is currently seeking poetry submissions for an anthology of Latinx Futurisms she’s editing with Alan Chazaro and Malcolm Friend. For more of her work and for the submission call, you can find Kim at kimsousawrites.com and on Twitter @kimsoandso and @LatinxFuturisms.
Patrick Mullen-Coyoy is a queer, Guatemalan-Irish poet and college access advocate living in Ypsilanti, MI. Along with increasing the number of students getting to and through college, they love stitching together poems about pop culture. Their writing appears or is forthcoming in The Acentos Review, Barrelhouse, LIT Magazine, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and Underblong Journal. You can follow them on Twitter at @aguacatemalteco for more pop culture poetry and critical musings on their love life.
All was if and maybe and meanwhile. The chorus sang full of weed, a reflection on the acoustics in the church, and–when does it ever seem all right– When will that be again? The empirical wish of a stupid requirement for happiness. Was that what it was? And, they lived happily ever after is the phrase perhaps you were looking for, a timid cool minute inside your head when you used to believe otherwise, back in the slow when time when it was not the new normal and, man, it is not just us; it is global and inflated and then you know it is terrifying, Did they take a census this year? 2020. America, I seem to remember ten years ago the government wanted to know our household income, and what we did for a living. This year? The form was all about age and race and you could fill in whatever “other” you wanted. Like a weakness, a mere description of how it was not supposed to be.
Millicent Borges Accardi has received fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), Fulbright, CantoMundo, California Arts Council, Barbara Deming “Money for Women,” and Fundação Luso-Americana (FLAD). Most recent poetry book, Only More So (Salmon). IG and Twitter @TopangaHippie.
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