44 Poetry Class
Reserve our Private Writing Room
Turns out there’s a differencebetween a halo and a crown,
You seemed to acknowledge that the same things I needed in here I needed out there
I ask myself I ask myself whether the color of my skin determines my worth I ask myself if the love language doesn’t roll off my tongue,
we sip topo chico with the sun drinking us down;
can you see through me to my skeletoncan you hold my bare bones with your eyes
oh hi,you answered.well lets get straight to it.do you have time to talk aboutmasculinity?
The sun eats awaychunks of gray cloudsfor the first time in weeksrevealing bright teal skies
My mother was a pelican, and when we went to church on Sunday, she always packed Crayolacrayons. She never packed the Rose Art crayons, because she knew I didn’t like them.
Like a blotted circle in a crusty ash traythe moon is out and we drive to chase itacross the bridge and into the night
Daddy used to cup his hands at my earso I could hear the river. Every timethe world stops, something is lost.
Blood, tears Blood, tearsBlood, no more tears
I must have oftenand numbing myself from the pain
Dear poetyou are brave
poetry is survival
An international death
This bruise is a quarter of my life
You’re not in the photo, but it’s all about you.
a terminal constellation / a polka dot brain / some MRI scans /
make me like a sea sponge
Memories of you always seem to hit me at the most inconvenient times
Don't make me write about you because when I do, I build
I often fantasize a round tablethree shot glasses, a bottle of tequila
my lips are red from good conversation
“If you show me the power that
the man who held up the world
Soy una pieza diminuta
Her love for him is not just when he is full:
I come from the snowand the plains.
write a poemwhen it comes to you
In my parents backyard. Childhood Pocahontas blanket over my shoulder.
It is the song of the universeBig bang flowing with inertia
Star-ved stepsbend to the ground
gravel crunches under my sneakers, her boots. i can only see what’s in front of
I'm Oyzis*.I see you've comewith my doppelganger
Blue and blue and blue and green. The day she finished chemotherapy, she called me.
You and I, we go way back
when does a war truly become one's own?
My lungs were tucked into a boxWrapped in a pink bow
“Speak to your medical provider.”But they don’t wear the skin I’m in.
I am standing on a grave that my ancestors dug,
What am I? I don’t have the luxury of being mediocre. My tresses are curled and kinked.
The heart of the Valley beats in PanoramaCycling between third world and developed nation
Does my mic sound nice?Do my words sound nice?Does my hype sound nice?
. . . and when I look up high to the skies I see the beautiful geese flying . . .
You talk like you have monopoly on language like your tongue knows betterhow to twist alphabets and rest them in lines