Day Laborer

Morning is a bitter, gray fog-- a dirty cough into calloused hands-- the same hands that load tools to trucks that mean American Dream. Day peaks and they dig without complain-- dust falls on their frowning mustaches color of early morning darkness, which they learn to wake up in, without complain. Each strike of their … Continue reading Day Laborer



The Lady is nailed to the walls of the home. Enclosed is the history of my submission. Pain engraved in the red dress, blood from the womb of indigenous Aztlán. And still, blood of Woman marks the image. Redolent of the Patriarchal storm. I see you there: Grandmother, Mother, Sister. Also clothed with these garments … Continue reading Virgin


An American moon fixes in her pale eyes of shattered snail shells. A moon raised by the old Aztec God, straining his knees, a white crescent shell wet on his back. She sprang out of dust and river because home was a begging hand too small for hunger and North was a silver coin. Elsewhere … Continue reading Deceptive