Imperfect
When did shapes
Go from circles and triangles and squares
To hourglasses
And to apples and pears?
When did bodies
Stop being muscles and bones?
Arms and legs and fingers and toes?
No. Now they’re curves or lack thereof.
She’s voluptuous, no she’s flat.
She should be more skinny, why is she fat?
She’s got legs for days, oh, but her arms are too strong.
She’s thick, shake that booty, but you condemn her wearing thongs.
She’s thin, slender beauty, but she presents herself wrong.
You ogle and judge,
Think you’ve a hand in the matter
Whether she should be skinny or she should be fatter.
But you have no right to think that, she says,
And she forces herself to believe
That you don’t get to her.
But as she looks in the mirror she tells herself this:
“My body is something to worship”;
Yet she knows it’s a lie coming deep from within
For all she’s ever wanted was to be thin.
She has freedom with clothes—
Although that’s what you see
She thinks to herself “I’m dressing for me”
And her makeup and jewelry and shoes and hair
She does for herself despite what you care.
But for some reason she wish that she knew
She could not separate her body image from you.
You told her to eat less so she did.
You told her to regret that piece of cake so she did.
You told her to avoid carbs so she did.
You told her to workout more so she did.
You told her to hate each bite of food so she did.
But with each doing there were so many fails
So she cried
Then did the only thing she could to reconcile
Her next meal she upended.
Her next workout she extended.
The body she struggles so much with loving
Has finally become a beacon of self loathing.
What was once a gift has become a cage
Imprisoning her with all fury and rage.
She doesn’t know to cry for help
Because this is what you made of her—
You told her too many times, so she believes you are right,
So while mind and body are fully at war, she won’t even
Put up a fight.
This is the nature of the beast you created.
You handed her the body that she’s always hated.
May 2020 Covid-19
With great tragedy comes unification
of people diverse from all through the nation.
We see death; we see fear; we see angst; we see pain,
with hopes of tomorrow obscured by the rain.
But every rain cloud has a silver lining
and with continued support we'll soon see the sun shining;
For as we witness rise in the death count tally,
we, too, witness people come together to rally
and give their support within their community
and increase global trends in kindness and unity.
No other time is as telling as this--
our institutions run amok and our norms are amiss--
but despite the expected social disaffection,
we find brand new means of human connection
be it virtual, online, or six feet apart.
We are a lonely people but we share one heart.
Today is daunting but tomorrow starts a new
day that, together, we can persevere through.
Small
Sometimes, somedays
I just feel small.
Like a mouse or a flower
Or a faded shirt
But not a human who is short or tall
I’m talking full on small
Whenever I am feeling small
I know my hand will be the size of your palm
And my eyes will lock with yours
As I gaze from beneath
While my little body rests on the wall
And I shrink
And I shrink
Or I want to, I think
And I want my presence to get small, too
But not so that I’m insignificant
And not that I’m diminished
No, not that at all,
I just want to be small.
When I’m small I feel little
Like a toddler who still crawls
Or a bully who goes to the bathroom to cry
And hides away forever in the dim-lit stall.
Yet I’m neither of those
No, not at all
I’m just someone who’s a little bit small
I hang on a balance
Teetering between
Nonexistent and so big that I stretch
From wall to wall, through the whole hall
Filling every gap.
But in those moments I feel like I’ll slip
And fall
And fall
Until I’m nowhere at all
And I won’t be seen and I won’t be heard
And it’s in those moments that I feel small.
Most of the time I am not small
But I crave it
So I put on a coat — an oversized coat
And I sink down, down
Until it covers me all
And I’m too weak to lift it off
But not weak mentally
Just merely too small.
And so I wait there patiently
Under the heap on the ground
And wait to be picked up
So that I can jump out onto your hand
Because now my whole self will fit into your palm
Because
After all
I want to feel small.
Geese in New York
Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the other tide.
Tide?
The tide of change
Like waves coming in—crashing
Trucks crashing, cars crashing
It’s really a metal world
Medal on medal
Gold and bronze
Or is it copper? Like a vintage penny
I’ve seen it before
Far away in a dream
Far away like the cloud at the end of the rainbow
Except you can never get to the end
And there is no rainbow.
The sky is a fly roadmap in ℝ3
Except they can’t follow the route
Like the geese in New York
They stop in the middle of the road—stupid
Thinking the world stops for them
But the rest of the world is geese too
And the feathered taxi drivers honk
And the pedestrians fly away
Perhaps to Oz.
Maybe to Dubai.
Are they flying or just ripping the fabric of time?
The time that’s a tapestry on the wall
It is immune to all
Except the New Yorkers who think they are geese
Forgotten
I
I have forgotten how to be alone
With myself. I am a nomad of the land,
a tamer of beasts,
an everlasting vine with plump fruits from the past
and even more waiting to be born.
I know how to carry the sun on my shoulders.
I know how to let the wind borrow my voice for song.
I breathe in tranquility
And exhale hope,
yet I’ve forgotten how to be alone
With myself.
II
I have a body that needs no other to function.
With my mind nourished by the air in my lungs,
I am rooted in soil so thick
that no gale will ever bend me,
Yet with the absence of wind altogether I feel as if
I might wither.
When two asteroids collide
They may explode or they may merge—
Explode and fractal, sending pieces of each other into oblivion
or merge as molten rock becomes fused into one radiant orb.
But when two asteroids miss,
They shall never know the fate of the other
And they will forget to imagine
The fate of themself.
III
By the time my cells will have been engulfed by the ground
Few memories will linger around of me.
The pear tree will know my essence,
Not my name.
And the walkers and crawlers and runners
will step over me in blind ignorance.
But I already know
What it’s like to be forgotten.
IV
Why is there love and hate if it is not used
To create?
To help others?
If I were never here,
The world would be no better nor worse.
But each life touched
was realer than I will ever be. And
Each piece created can sustain
the asteroids collided,
the asteroids missed,
the walkers
and the ones that then walk on them.
Introverted Star
Once upon a great blue sky
A little star refused to shine
So I looked up and asked him why
And he let out a heavy sigh
Then said, “the light don’t feel like mine
To share; I am a wee bit shy.”
Where Is the Like?
If Love is the permutations of
a Rubik’s cube
I’ve only experienced one twist.
So the rest of my knowledge exists
From family, films, and soulful songs
All the stories revolve
Around one four letter word
No matter if it’s fiction or real life
It brings togetherness and causes strife
It motivates and it distracts
It lights new paths and sets people off-track—
This o n e magical concept
That infiltrates our radio waves,
Floods our media on TV,
And sparks the musical careers of some
lucky heartbroken teens
But so far from what I gather—
And this is rather blunt for me to say—
But Love just isn’t what it’s cut out to be,
And yes, you need it to go down
On one knee
But it’s just not essential every day.
The Black Eyed Peas ask:
“Where is the Love?”
But, please, allow me to ask:
“Where is the Like?”
Where is the Like
That brings joy to living?
Love can burn forever in a flameless fire
But Like is the tinder that gives us light.
Like is a shield that guards us from pain
(While Love is an invitation to share it)
And Like is a delicate stained glass window
(While Love is a single, sturdy pane)
I Liked all my friends before I Loved them
And unless one drove a spike through my heart
I would continue to do so.
So where did your Like go?
Were you not friends once long ago?
I laugh at myself
for looking for worry
yet finding guilt,
Asking myself
If your Love for each other was greater than
Your Love for what you’ve built
When, really, I should’ve asked—
And I warn this is striking—
Does Loving matter at all if there is no Liking?
La Lune
She sings her song from up above
And fills the sky with her heavenly tune—
A song of light and light of love
I know she will be coming soon
And I welcome, with open arms, she, the lovely moon
The Airport
Planes land at all times of day
Land, take off
Land, take off
So fast that air traffic control can’t log it
And the airport is shrink wrapped
With the windows removed
And the walls are clear, crinkled plastic
Sucking in, contracting
Expanding, contracting
Footsteps echo in this iron lung
Crinkle crinkling louder with each breath.
But most times it’s quiet
So quiet that it’s see-through-clear
With fragments of rainbows refracted
Through the looking glass crystal of tattered shrink wrap.
The hustle and bustle is just expectation
Gone unnoticed
Through the thin polymer
That blocks broken rainbows but forgets to block white light.
But sometimes a traveler—head down, feet shuffling—
Bumps into a light switch that
Fills the building with a fluorescent wash.
And sometimes the sun pours in green
Or lavender
Or brown or dark blue
Or gray with an A but not grey with an E
Or a soft, pale yellow or a stale pink, too.
And sometimes the sun doesn’t pour through at all
It cowers behind looming clouds
So the overcast changes the sound of the crinkle
Crinkling walls.
But whatever the lighting,
Whatever the color
Planes keep landing
Passengers pass through
And aviators and janitors alike—
Pilots and groundsmen, too—
Get flustered from planes leaving before their wheels even touch the ground
It’s too fast to authorize
So some departures depart before the arrival arrives
Manuscript in progress: "Temporarily Permanent"
expected self-publication 2022
ISBN: 979-8-7915-6420-7 (paperback)
Table of Contents (updated 1/15/22)
Foreword
On Society—
Genesis
Intro, Pt. II
Geese in New York
Where is the Like?
The Human Experience
On Greed—
Metamorphosis of Fruit
More
Cracked Diamonds
Preschool
On Illness—
The Flu
Moon vs Stars Villanelle
May 2020 Covid-19
May 2021 Covid-19
On Eating—
Candy
Imperfect
Mangoes
On the Environment—
Earth’s Messenger
The Place
Spring Hymn
Welcome the Tempest
Inevitable
On Thinking—
Expert Conversationalist
The Airport
Mind Box
Small
Forgotten
On Dreaming—
Moonrise
Progressions of Dreaming
Introverted Star
Lost Reflection
I’ve lately had a hard time
Looking in the mirror.
For I no longer recognize my skin or my fat
Nor my face, for that matter.
I stare at myself And someone looks back
But I just can’t seem to see it as me.
It’s like my identity has been ripped
Out from my body and now it’s its own entity
One that doesn’t look in the mirror like me.
While away from the mirror
I’ve given it some thought
And I’ve decided that my reflection got lost—
Not lost because it couldn’t find itself
Lost because it didn’t know itself.
I am a white Latina atheist Jew
And a few things I’m afraid to mention, too.
I am a woman, but sometimes
I’m more a man than of what I actually am.
I am a STEM major but my passion is for words.
I am a kid thrown into an adult world.
I am—
I am.
I am confused.
I label myself like I’m from the inner city
But I’ve barely had to face adversity.
Sure, my roots are planted in serious grief;
Yes, my relatives were exterminated for their religious beliefs;
And for his accent and brown skin my grandpa was assaulted;
And for her femininity my mother was assaulted;
But I wasn’t there for any of that, was I?
And though my Jewish heritage runs coarse through my blood
Thick blood like that of the Paschal lamb that is now our mezuzah,
probably (if I believed in that stuff);
And though my Mexican heritage flows rich on my skin
It only shines in the sun in the summer;
And my body is defined by being female
But I either hate it or don’t recognize it.
I am so full of muted colors and triumphs from the past
That put shackles on most
But left me unscathed.
Why?
Well I grew up in the suburbs where the “well off” people go
Where they don’t have to worry about their little girl getting squashed
Where she’s too sheltered to know if she gets bullied for who she is
So she assumes it never happens
And there is no consequence of that thought.
Well that girl wants to be angry.
And that girl is me,
But I know my anger will only make others angrier.
I’ve never felt the effects
Of racism
Of classism
Of sexism
Of ableism
Of agism
Am I missing other isms?
No, I’ve never been excluded because of my race
Or been persecuted because of my religion
I’ve barely ever received a mean name or a funny look
I’ve never even been catcalled.
So I should be celebrating,
Right?
You have every right
to be angry.
Angry that you get shot for the color of your skin by the people you pay to protect you;
Angry that you love and respect your neighbors, yet they profile you as a terrorist;
Angry that you are the disgust of the very people to whom you’ve come to seek solace and protection;
Angry that you struggle so much to connect with your past when you were written out of their history;
Angry that you’ve worked so hard to gain the system that now the system aims for you and fires;
Angry that you have to fear being groped as you walk down the street for simply existing as you are;
Angry that you will always be below your able bodied and minded brothers and sisters;
Angry that you were thrown out by mainstream culture, so you’ll never chance your spot in the spotlight.
Well I’m over here, and I’m angry.
Complaining I’ve nothing to be angry about
The most I’ve got is a harmless joke about the size of my nose.
I know!
I know what you’re thinking so let me spare you some words
And please don’t diagnose me with white guilt
Because you should know from this version of me that I’ve built
That I faintly check some other boxes.
But really, I can’t see why I can’t just be
angry at the world.
My whole life I’ve been so desperate to connect
That it has only made me more detached
So detached, in fact,
That my reflection doesn’t recognize me when it looks out through the mirror.
I’m used to playing hide and seek with my reflection
But it doesn’t need to hide because it knows I will spend too long seeking.
Well I’m ready for it to be found.