My Collection

Read my chapbook

Perigee

Exposure

You

Are in sharp contrast

The dial

Turned up

And the brightness

Too harsh

I turn my eyes to you

Anyway


You

Who smell like petrichor

And taste like rainfall

I don’t know how

To savor you.

Times Square During Covid

Nature seems,

cautious

but confident —

she is retaking the streets

slowly.

Weeds between sidewalk cracks

no longer fight 

against trampling soles —

They too,

are coming forward.

It’s hard to believe

the bustling city

is quiet —

That the reflections

in sidewalk puddles

are clear of footfalls.

Free

to glare back

with the same

bright lights and billboards,

that oppressed them 

not so long ago.

I walk, now

the streets

with only my eyes

tripping from streetlamp

to neon sign

through the lens of a camera

— a photograph

of a modern ghost town.

I wonder

how long

our memories

will keep the lights on.

PANIC

The classroom was born of mildew and not-quite-bright-enough lighting, and the only thing she could think when stepping inside was: Today is about to get worse. The desks blossomed outward into an auditorium and she saw the world through a fishbowl lens of dread. The teacher sat oblivious at his corner desk, shuffling through papers and drinking his morning cup of coffee while the few early-bird students tittered about the assignment:

“— not that bad, just two minutes”

“— at least it’s not as long as the last one”

“— do you guys know who’s going first?”

She went to comment, hopefully not me! but found her voice barred in her throat. The words stood behind a one way mirror, caged in with the same air that she was supposed to have been breathing. 

She coughed. The fishbowl shrunk back to the normal, stuffy classroom where she sat down and pulled out her phone to try to distract herself from the clock in the corner ticking, ticking, ticking towards the start of class. 

She failed. 

The teacher reluctantly set down his coffee and stood up.

“Bueno. Hoy tenemos los orales; solamente dos minutos sobre un artículo que elegisteis.”

The chattering slowed as her last straggling classmates slid behind desks. She dragged out the wrinkled notes for the assignment. 

It’s only two minutes. We did six a few weeks ago and I did fine.

Her pen started tap tap tapping on the edge of the desk as she looked around the room. A few were scrambling to get ready, pulling out their articles and re-reading their annotations. Her eyes met those of a friend who smiled as if to say “Don’t worry! It’ll be easy!”

She gave a grimace back. Sure it will.
Her teacher took attendance, then pointed to a boy sitting in the front row. Knowing the routine, his eyes flitted about the room before he groaned out “treinta y cinco.”

If he would just tell us beforehand, it would be so much easier.

The professor nodded. Again pointed to the boy, “Uno.” He turned to the next student, “Dos, tres, quatro …”

Tension grew, bouncing from person to person, number to number until:

 “— treinta y cuatro, treinta y cinco.”

Her head rose. He was pointing to the desk next to her. Thank god.

The number game was torture. A Sisyphean cycle of tension. She wasn’t picked first, but in two minutes the game of roulette would just start again. 

Her thoughts spun like uncentered pottery during her friend’s presentation. The corner of her notes was folded, re-folded and crinkled past the point of return. The first sentence of her presentation, practiced in the mirror the night before, circled around her head: a vulture. En esta artículo, en esta artículo, en esta artículo…

By the time she was chosen as tribute, she was a mess. She stood, blood rushing behind her eyes, hands fidgeting with her pleated skirt, and walked to the front of the class. Everything slowed, her thoughts went from speeding to staggering through a drunken obstacle course.

Before today, she’d never felt quite this kind of nervous. Each step was a drawstring corset around her chest, so that by the time she was near the whiteboard her breaths were quick and shallow. She didn’t think it was going to get worse, I’ll just get it over with. Quick and done.

When her article title came up on screen she gestured to it and parted her lips to say “En esta artículo…” Except– nothing.  

Why can’t I breathe?

Eurydice’s Escape

It was a love story

that befit the gods —

they said.

Orpheus,

so enchanting —

handsome and bewitching,

with that lyre!

a voice

that commanded

attention

How fitting that he found

me.

a maiden 

made for him

No one knows

the details —

how he came

to make me love him —

they knew

none could resist

his godly songs

But never questioned

how magical

the lyre truly was

how little choice

it gave

to the ears 

doomed to listen —

my ears.

How tragic!

my untimely death,

they said,

how terrible a fate

to bestow

on such a deserving 

man!

As if my death

was only meant 

to be his hardship.

How brave!

they said,

for him to follow her

down to the underworld —

past Cerberus 

and Hades’ gates

to plead for her back

for my life

to be given back to him

because all I was

was his.

Hades didn’t think

to ask

my shade

what I wanted–

didn’t wonder 

what I had to say.

Death handed me to him

with one condition: 

Do not look upon her,

trust

that she will follow.

Is it any wonder

that he was so careful?

Grip 

as tight around me

as it was around his instrument?

Both of us 

of equal value.

He was so close

to owning me again —

as he stepped out

into the pale light

of life,

finally releasing

my purpled wrist —

he thought 

I would follow

But,

I was free