Quiet Lightning is:

a literary nonprofit with a handful of ongoing projects,

including the flagship literary mixtape, a submission-
based reading series featuring all forms of writing without
introductions or author banter, published as a series of books
called sparkle & blink. This special edition is an anthology
featuring some of the authors who this year performed in
our quarterly showcase of writers of color, Better Ancestors.
Since December 2009 we’ve presented 1,896 readings by
1,033 authors in 161 shows and 124 publications, selected by
78 different curators and performed in 99 venues, appearing
everywhere from dive bars and art galleries to state parks
and national landmarks.

Full text and video of all shows can be found for free online.

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One of Quiet Lightning’s efforts to move toward
racial equity, Better Ancestors is a quarterly showcase
of writers of color. Developed in partnership with
the poet Michael Warr, the series features 5 authors
reading or performing whatever they choose. Each
author selects one performer for the following show,
so the series—and community—is self-generating.
Authors are paid and published in this special edition
of sparkle + blink.

Why Better Ancestors? This showcase aims to

Better Ancestors
provide a long-term, forward-thinking goal. We
are all ancestors of the future, and if we want
a better world we have to be better ancestors.
This begins by listening to one another, and by
giving each other space to be heard.

Read about the authors, watch their performances

and find out about upcoming shows:

quietlightning.org/better-ancestors

Better Ancestors was made possible

with support from California Humanities,
a non-profit partner of the National
calhum.org Endowment for the Humanities.
sparkle + blink 118
© 2024 Quiet Lightning

Cover art “Liberation Through Redaction”

by Trina Michelle Robinson, photographed by Nick Lea Bruno
trinamrobinson.com

set in Absara

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 featured artist
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London Pinkney Historic-ness:

A Californian Symphony
in D Minor 1
Sandy Vazquez This Heaven, Made to Order 7
Michaela Chairez The Tortilla Curtain 13
Zoot Suit (1981) 14
The Woman with
a Cactus Heart 16
James Cagney Tiny Buddha 19
Dream Arcana: Two Mothers 22
Untitled Abecedarian 24
Alligatoroid 26
Carlos Quinteros III Big Brother 29
Peel Out 31
Sarah O’Neal There is No Going Back 33
Wellness Check 34
Lillian Giles Choir 37
Alex Feliciano Mejía Curricular Archaeology Vol. 1 43
Tadeh Kennedy Disparate Thoughts on
Nail Biting and Genocide 49
Karla Myn Khine Café Sonnet 51
Roadside Assistance,
Where Are You? 52
From 5 to 7 54
Trinh Lê & Zêdan Xelef Note on Collaboration 59
Haptic Monuments 60
Compost the United States 62
Trinh Lê & Zêdan Xelef (continued)
Mechanical Birds Snip Over
My Headfield [excerpt] 63
Jueju for a 21st Century 66
Two Leos 67
Kato Bisase This one doesn’t have much
of a spine, but it still tickles 69
Time is God 71
Ambivalent mirage 72
Keep Tinted 73
Cristina S. Méndez Long Way Back to
Palatka Lane 75
Our Sacred Sunday Rituals 76
Leticia Guzman Remember Me Brave 79
How to Summon Me 80
 g is sponsor
et Lightnin ed b
Qu i y
 Quiet Lightning
A 501(c)3, the primary objective and purpose of Quiet
Lightning is to foster a community based on literary
expression and to provide an arena for said expression.

Formed as a nonprofit in July 2011, the ql board is currently:

Evan Karp executive director

Meghan Thornton treasurer
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Sophia Passin

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helping—on any level—please send us a line:

e v an @ qui et light nin g . o rg

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e t hi c a l a r t s ecos ys t em

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t h a n k y o u t o o u r pat r o n s

alex abreu catherine montague

sage curtis james morehead
frederica morgan davis sophia passin
chris dillon jessie scrimager
kevin dublin jon siegel
linette escobar katie tandy
ada genavia
mary gayle thomas
chrissie karp
miles karp meghan thornton
ronny kerr brian waksmunski
charles kruger emily wolahan
jennifer lewis edmund zagorin
shannon may connie zheng
 ndon Pinkney
Lo

a l i f o H i s t o r i c - n e s s:
aC or
rnian Symphony in D Min

I.

When I think of who I am, the two most consequential

identities I claim are that I am a Person Who Loves Pink
and I am a Black Californian. These identities make me
inclined to love delusion. Being a Lover of Pink comes
with its own form of delusional grandeur. Pink is the
greatest color God ever invented, and you cannot
convince me otherwise.1

And being a Black Californian comes with its

own level of delusion. I have learned to live in the
state’s contradictory identities: California is a liberal
sanctuary except in the Tenderloin and on Skid Row;
California is a state where lawns are decorated with
sunworn and forgotten Love is Love and Black Lives
Matter signs; it’s a state that is so perfectly redlined
that each year I find myself asking: where did all the
niggas go?

And where did we go?2 Where are the press and curls?
The bumped end? Where’s the bass and low riders?

1
I love a cool fuchsia pink—a pink that screams Barbie is my God; that screams
I pray at the altar of the Sherman Oaks Mall; Hoochie Coochie Pink; a pink that
lets you know that even though my hair is natural, I have the energy of 40 inch
Brazilian buss down; that even my texts have vocal fry.
2
Besides Texas and Nevada. Since 2018, over 20,000 Black Californians have
moved out of the Golden State. 1
Where are the knees that have been caked with Crisco
and powdered by the Santa Ana winds? Where’s your
aunt? My uncle? Their kids?

I want to claim my dignity in the face of a state whose

own mythos risks swallowing me. I want to know how
to stitch ourselves into California’s story, how do we
take everyone’s truths, half-truths, lies, and stories, and
hold space for how we are curled around one another
like threads in history’s rope. What does it mean for us
to, as Toni Morrison said, claim ourselves as central?
What does it mean to call the minor details of our life
historic?

Reader, we are here together, and this moment is

historic because we are people living. I want us to be
fastened like glow-in-the-dark stars on California’s
ceiling, illuminating the state in gold.

You cannot see California without seeing us.

II.

To become a woman who writes about California: I

had to lay prostrate at Joan Didion grave; I have to
wear 2 skirts, 2 jerseys, 2 leotards, one sweater, 2 pairs of
shoes and a pair of stockings all at once for forty days
and forty nights; I have to lick her giant sunglasses like
the sun will never rise again; I must sustain myself on
almonds and Diet Coke; I have to generalize; I have
to reject the South even though it’s my Eden; I have
to forget the Central Valley ever existed—except for
Sacramento; I have to forget niggas existed; I have to
start using the term African Americans; I have to learn

2 L on do n Pi n k n e y
how to be subtle about class, so subtle that I even
forget the poor white folks; I have to go to Mexico
to get lazy and brown; I have to use words like lazy
and brown; I have to watch The Panic in Needle Park
and to focus on the dialogue and forget about how Al
Pacino was incredibly fuckable3; I have to write the
perfect sentence; I have to learn how to weave; I have
to watch South Central burn and only talk about the
weather; and even after all of that Joan told me, during
our late Ouija board chats, that I wasn’t ready for such
an undertaking. I have not learned how to fear the
uneasiness of Los Angeles’s air.

Aren’t you afraid of the fires in Watts? Joan asks. And

I don’t answer her—I have family on third and
Wilmington.

III.

As a child, there are three things I knew about my

mama’s father: 1) he was Afro-Seminole, 2) he had blue
eyes, and 3) he loved her very much. This, and his name
was James Lockridge. On days when my mama would
give way to her emotions, she repeated these facts to
me, like an incantation. She never told me about his
eyes or indigeneity as a way to exotify, but rather to
stitch together a father she lost in 1974. And in return,
I remind her of her memories, validating to her that
she was born to a man that loved her, a man named
James Lockridge. As the years have gone by she’s told
me more about him and the rez she partially grew up
on. The last time she saw him was during the funeral

3
Like, so fuckable.

London P i nkne y 3
procession. On one particularly sleepy night, she told
me she doesn’t believe he was in the casket. And I think
she may have been right. Perhaps, in that casket, there
was just a card with those facts on it or a single blue
eye, disjointed as he is in my mama and I’s memory. I
carry him with me, as we do all our ancestors, but his
absence doesn’t haunt me because I am content with
the fact that my mother, whose presence is mythic,
might as well have been born of woman and story.

I V.

I am a natural collector of stories. As a kid I would help

my mama and dad clean out their wallets, collect their
receipts, and imagine the day they had. For instance,
I know that on October 9th, 2011 at 2:13pm my dad
bought a medium orange juice from McDonald’s. I
imagined him pulling up to the window fixed on that
sugary drink, because that’s how daddy is and that’s
how dads are despite their diabetes diagnosis.

I would keep note of these moments because, for

me, to love is to remember. It is to hold the parts of
their sum. I come from a long line of lovers who care
for everyone but themselves. Our love, like our self-
neglect, is passed from generation to generation like
muscle memory. Because of this, I can be bad about
opening up.

I will tell everyone’s story before my own.

But as of late, I have been sharing the story of my life

with my love, as loves beguile us to do. I’ve spoken
about how much I miss L.A.. I miss the city for its

4 L on do n Pi n k n e y
predictability. I miss the predictability of the blue
skies, the prison welcome home parties, the weather
forever being 76 degrees as if God left a thermostat
on, the hood ice cream trucks that always had my
favorite Tweety Bird popsicle4. I miss the payday loans
my mom would stress over, the Inglewood kickbacks,
being left in hot cars by guardians who are trying their
best, being called fast by aunties who can’t keep a man.
I miss the car chases down city streets that end at the
driver’s mama’s house (because we all know mama’s
house is the safe zone. Cops can’t touch you there).
The city will burn, the people will burn and we will all
find a way to wake up and do it over again. There was
safety in our stuckness. Each of these things, a part of
my sum, a person who was securely fixed to this fire.
But I’m not on fire anymore. I have been surprisingly
soft and open for my love.

Perhaps I think he’s different, perhaps, this is me

saying, Look behind me, at all the girls I have been. Love
them, like you love me now. Carry the history of me, when I
am too heavy and scattered to hold.

4
The one with the gumballs for eyes.

London P i nkne y 5
 dy Vazquez
San

This Heaven,
M a de to Or der
After Tianna Bratcher, “how to bury me”

I.

I asked for a heaven made to order

One where I could take pieces of my love
and bury them in soil supple enough
for blooming year round, I ask these roots stay
strangers to any border, listen when
my dad says that California soil is
fertile, anything can grow here. so I
collect dirt underneath my finger nails
breathe into ancient ground—boundless, alive—
And pray he is right as i dig a bed
for myself between the pericón and
the hummingbirds taking flight
I sink into the Earth, bury myself
and wish for something other than right here

7
 II.

I wish for something other than this Earth

I bury myself and follow my roots
across the bottom of clear seas, passing
sunken cities and forgotten bones. I
separate layers of gravel and dust,
pulling myself into the walls of a
sanitized hospital, i roam, finding
anxious knuckles and scattered accents that
sound like home, i shed fear and sprout comfort,
encomendaciones a Dios, I lace
my fingers, bridging distance and time and
language and customs, nos enraizamos
In the belief that here, in this heaven,
there is no separation, we stay limitless

III.

We stay limitless like the cosmos. Here,

We float con certidumbre, simmering
Fortaleza beneath the surface, grows
My family links elbows and we sing
our elders back to health our vocal chords
become their dance floor; we are joyous in
spite of ourselves, laughter splits the sky in
half and suddenly, all that we are shines
In this heaven, Abuela Carmen pulls
our language out of the breeze, suddenly
no one needs a translator, just an ear
and some space to be. All the grandparents
meet us con brazos abiertos, ready
to show us all we’ve yet to see: reflect

8 S an dy Va z que z
 I V.

And we reflect on all we’ve yet to see

This heaven is all mirrors and soil, we
dig when we need to and bloom where we please
In Lak Ech said someone somewhere in this
blood y la misma vena repondió
A la K’iin and our skin grew silver scales,
catching each other’s light this skin nos guió
Further into collective memory,
far enough to know that in this heaven
there is ease. There are plants for each elder
to hold onto us from, this heaven is
a garden. Mamey for Don San, coffee
beans for abuelito Fede. They stay
alive in this realm. Rosas y lirios

V.

In this realm, las rosas y lirios se

Riegan solas. Abue Juanita y
Abuela Carmen blossom forever
We nurture the soil that keeps them here. In
This heaven, no hay quien nos separe
Repartimos el patio entre los
que quedan, cada quien a regar su
pedazo de este legado. We
take turns bathing in what our ancestors
know, sembrando semillas, el terre-
no endulzado. We fold this sweetness
between earth and mourning fingers, ésta
dulzura nos alimentará. In
This heaven, goodbyes blossom heavy fruit

Sandy Va zqu e z 9
 VI.

This heaven is ripe with mouthfuls of good-

Byes hanging from the tip of our tongues ‘til
there is no room but to drop seed, nourish
something new in the echoing absence
of wrinkled hands. Good—is all our mouths can
hold. Good, and the trees sway. Good, is how we
sustain the land. el sufrimiento se
desvanece. Good, the lirios twinkle
up at the sky. Good, bloom. “Muy bien, ve y
florece” the wind whispers back in the
voice of everyone I’ve lost. Trees respond,
“la vida no tiene sentido si
no estás contenta.” La brisa me
levanta las animas, says to me

VII.

Las ánimas se levantan, saying

“al cementerio, te llevan. Pero
Si quieres hacer contacto con ellos,
sus espíritus están en el patio.”
and i feel every ounce of my spirit
lifting beyond this realm into our place
This heaven we grew. This heaven, made to
order, seeing ourselves in the image
of the leaves, flowers, medicine that once
guided us through our journey in the
physical plane. I collect all the words
I don’t have language for in the space be-
tween my heart and the soil. I tend, i til,
i sow, until i’ve conjured enough words

10 S an dy Va z que z
 VIII.

I conjure root words from the soil. I sowed

enough language to be heard from here til
eternity, the cempasúchitl takes
root and I know I’ve been listened to. Here,

In this heaven, I feel my dad’s words, loud

Clear. vibrating in my bones, I listen
This, the only prayer I’ll ever need
“Es simple, nosotros venimos de
la naturaleza y ahí nos
Regresaremos.” I’ve gathered all the
Silver this lifetime had to give me and
prayed this heaven real; In this heaven, we
are eternal, here, we are always, here,
we are until we decide not to be

Sandy Va zqu e z 11
 ch aela Chair
Mi ez
The Tortilla Curtain

Tortillas aren’t made of barbed wire,

or made to be a barrier
to keep the queso separate
from the carne,
the carne from the cebolla,
nor the cebolla from the cilantro.

Tortillas are made to hold,

to remain cupped in our hands
and not break,
and yet, when they do break,
maybe after putting on too much salsa,
we grab our forks, not as pitchforks,

but as “we cannot waste

anything that’s left on our plate,”
this is how we are made full,
how we make sure no one leaves
on an empty stomach,
which is to say,

there is more
where that comes from.
Where what’s mine is yours
and what’s yours is mine—
the tortilla falls on our plate,
flat like an open hand
13
 Zoot Suit (1981)

I dress Barbie in a black zoot suit

and call her El Pachuca.

She leans against the counter

in the kitchen made just for her.
*snap*
This isn’t a myth
nor a fantasy.
*snap*

She stands in a cool pose –

her left hand on her hip

on the inside of her suit jacket,

her thumb interlacing with her red suspenders.
*snap*
This is a reality
of your becoming and being.
*snap*

14 Mi c h a e l a C h a i r ez
Her right hand is always in her right pocket,
carrying a red lipstick container

to conceal her switchblade,

readying to draw on anyone who tries to play with her.
*snap*
I am your other self.
Your self who you dream of.
*snap*
I pick up El Pachuca with my left hand
and move her outside for fresh air.

She asks to be in the sun,

leaving me alone in the shade.
*snap*
Selves blend.
The being becomes.
*snap*

We both lay on top of tall grass and dead leaves.

El Pachuca then asks me to feel what’s ready to reveal
itself

in my right pocket.
*snap*

Mi ch a e la Ch a i re z 15
 The Woman with a Cactus Heart
After Juan Felipe Herrera’s “The Man with a Cactus Heart”

I’m returning home

with a few added spines.

I pricked you
because you pricked me.

I imagine my great-grandfather melting them off

for the cattle to graze me

to nothing.
Then have me return to the ground

where I’ll stop imagining

you with the ocean in the background –

a margarita from the earth’s cup.

I won’t drink it in.

Only lick the salt off the rim

and reach for the lime

to squeeze dry the memories

I keep
returning to,

16 Mi c h a e l a C h a i r ez
turning the ground
of myself

to be
like the sand

the ocean
washes

away
with

Mi ch a e la Ch a i re z 17
 es Cagney
Jam

Tin y B u d d h a

I found a tiny Buddha, its curious periwinkle blue

stone, nestled amongst grains of street gravel

One hand mudra up to a mouth shushing against

sentences, against spellcasting, against fear, at peace
in an assembly of shattered glass, bottle caps.

The psychic said: I can see your spirit slouching out of

the class of your body like a bored adolescent. He wrote a
prescription that read: Learn To Meditate.

After all the funerals, trilling phones, soured

prescriptions, I lost my name and gained noise.
I knew empty rooms but not silence.

I harvested books on meditation and thought about

not thinking, about the mind’s anxious river. For
the first time, I sat in a sloppy quarter lotus and
attempted to follow the monologue of my own breath.

Inhale towards your belly button until you fill the

space between your toes.

The noise of memory. Previously occupied rooms

locked, chained and redesigned for strangers.
Traffic both inside and out braid themselves
together into a double helix.
19
Breathe out. Exhale darkness, its burned skillet, its
incessant murmuring. Make company with the divinity
of silence. Its perfect imperfection. Its echoing wounds.
Its sanctified bloodflow. Know that silence is the only
perfect element, the seat of God.

And he rebuked the sea and the wind and said: Peace, be still.

Perfect silence before asking my mother if she were

really my mother. Perfect silence as she inhaled. Then
said, let me tell you a story.

Curtailing thinking is akin to asking a waterfall to hush.

I asked tiny Buddha if he’d ever seen his own name on

a gravestone as I once did. He said: What do you mean…
name?

James Francis Cagney Jr. was an American actor and

accomplished dancer. On stage and in film, he was known
for his energetic performances, rapid-fire delivery and comic
timing.

James Cagney, Sr., was an African American forklift mechanic

who served in the Korean war. He was known as the Strong,
Silent Type and for fishing, drinking whiskey and listening to
the blues albums of Lightnin’ Hopkins.

James Cagney Jr is an African American poet. Adopted as an

infant, James was named after a man who was named after
another man.

First there is the thing, and then there’s the name of the
thing—and that’s one thing too many…

20 James Cagney
Fill your entire body with golden breath—exhale its
oily exhaust.

Perfect silence is hard to find: the ocean roaring,

asserting. rain trilling on empty sidewalks. rustle
of pages flipped in a bible. tone of a room with one
person in it sobbing. creak of a rocking chair in the
back bedroom. whisper of wind curling through trees
at a cemetery.

Perfect silence listening as she explained, No—she

was not actually my mother.

Perfect silence as her doctor explained over the

phone No, I would never see her alive again.

Perfect silence while she baked bread and explained

over her shoulder, past her other children, No, she
could not be my mother. Until today.

The opposite of Ohm is no.

Perfect silence in the house I grew up in the night

before being ordered by the city to leave.

Perfect silence as she explained she wanted her house

quiet again and I needed to leave.

Perfect silence next to my father’s bed as he lay dying,

the word love, our object at rest.

Sit with awareness, free from identification. Inhale

light. Exhale darkness.

Ja me s Ca gne y 21
 Dream Arcana: Two Mothers
I.

My birth-mother’s house trafficked with strangers

as if exploring an exhibit.
I lived here, yet feel an employee as I’m the only
one who responds to the doorbell chime.
From the porch, men suited between detectives
and ministers
ask for her by name. The word ‘mom’ sneezes
from my mouth,
a betrayal as soon as I say it.
I lead them upstairs to her cavernous
bedroom where she sits alone, night-gowned in white.
My words were flippant, coarse–in satire of a good
servant.
She hiccupped tears. I didn’t know her well enough
to discern
whether they were from joy or grief. Hastily,
I left her,
the silent men, the crowded house
and took a lap around the block.

22 James Cagney
The neighborhood familiar, the people in it threatening.
I felt exposed. I was stalked.
Terrified to look in the face of who followed me,
I sought to hide in a nearby taqueria,
but it was just a tiny vending booth
and I didn’t know the language for help.

II.

In the dream about my first mother, she appeared

in a double-king sized bed, dressed as to be baptized
in Yoruba white. Her mahogany bedroom
had an enormous open closet
where a half dozen lionesses rested, staring into space.
I sit at the edge of her bed, recalling she never liked cats.
I miss her, want her back and begin to tell her so.
The huntress amongst them comes up behind me,
places her snout on the back of my head and sniffs.
Even the caress of her nose feels weaponized.
A lion’s tongue is designed to lick meat off the bone
My mother reaches for my hand
I sit, waiting. There’s nothing to wake up for.

Ja me s Ca gne y 23
 Untitled Abecedarian

Atmospheric arcades in an atrium of ash

Black holes barricade their secret
compost of crushed cities in a crossfire of
death documentaries; deliberately edited
so that every execution ends in envelopes
fanned out like fish scales or five card stud

or geese gathered geometrically,

herons hovering as for homecoming
or hallucination.
Invasive insects have made the inauguration
inaccessible.
A jigsaw of japonica petals justify
Knitting kite strings with kelp and knives
Lacerating a large amount of loose lemons

More meadow head machines

More muscular mirrors

Its our national nostalgia for natal narcotics.

Or orphans overlooked in other
Parishes—prisoners in platform pumps of
Quartz. Under quarantine quilts, a quiet
Riot of rhythms, rage residue
Scrubbed from a skeleton of soot.

24 James Cagney
In this timeline, their throats
ululate under upturned umbrellas.

Very violent voices in the vestibule.

Where have all the winos wandered??

An extra-large X-axis of spit gurgles its solo

on the xenophobic xylophone

Some yahoos yapping in the yard about its yankee

zealot from Zion all zonked out on zucchini.

Ja me s Ca gne y 25
 Alligatoroid

The Black Caiman is an alligatoroid crocodylian.

Apex predator and largest of all alligator species.

In embryo, its mouth develops before its body,

with jaws generating up to 3700 lbs per sq inch
of bite force.

These armored reptiles have been around 235 million

years.
Triassic aerosaurs, were called
Armadilodiles, as early reptilian ancestors resembled
mammoth armadillos.

To look at a saltwater crocodile today,

is to gaze through a kaleidoscope of centuries
back to when evolution dropped its first mic.

With its crunchy asphalt skin

God’s denoted leviathan in Psalms 104
bares the hungers of every villain
and will walk away if any attempts are made to baptize it.

“It squirted and went into the muck,”said the lead pastor
from a Florida church, who approached a visiting gator
and offered his business card. He added: “I don’t know
what his spiritual condition is.”

26 James Cagney
Nature isn’t cruel enough to put wings on a crocodile.
Although archaeopteryx was a feathered dinosaur
that could fly,
it’s now hard to say where dinosaurs end and birds
begin.
As an archosaur, the crocodile remains generationally
stuck
behind its cousin, the starling.

Alligators, crocodiles and long-snouted gharials

are all semi-aquatic carnivores that hunt by ambush.
These serpents have been tested for
compassion, sympathy and mercy.
Having none, they slay men and eat them, weeping.

Such is the nature of God’s Cadillac reptile

that baits a man within his danger
by crooning a bluesy sob.

Do crocodiles actually cry?

‘Alligator tears’ are aggressive lies and fabrication

bait on a trap of razors.
Scientists used to wonder if tears lubricated meat
made dry by the victims’ overconfidence or delusion.

Note: when these river dragons eat,

they move their overjaw
not their nether jaw
and they have no tongue.

This professor in the evolution of the jaw

can often be found

Ja me s Ca gne y 27
 silently sucking a musky tortoise
like a savory jawbreaker.

By day they linger in flexible caves beneath stalac-

tites of mud.

At night they dwell in the water

lurking, for example, in the ponds of Cypress Ridge

in Bluffton, South Carolina

Where a bask of crocodiles lazed on the sunbaked

shores of a lagoon
hibernating near an old rusted drainage pipe
near the Chesapeake Bay.
Saltwater crocodiles --sweet potato skin gators--
eat no meat all winter and lie about enchanted--
hypnotizing themselves through breath.

A caiman was once photographed wearing a crown

of Hawaiian-shirted butterflies, soft tourists
lined up along its snout for shots of hibiscus tears.
Patient flowers of teeth.

Their olive green eyes

twin chips of reflective aluminum
floating in concentration
just above the catfish surface

“Alligatoroid” is a kind of cento that quotes or references

roughly 16 different articles collected over a three year span.
For those interested, the original articles can be read at:
quietlightning.org/alligatoroid

28 James Cagney
 uintero
l os Q s
C ar III
Big Brother

They told us how -Eden-

used to be.

It made us pray harder.

Dad spoke as if It
were heaven. Mom said
It was more like a taste.

When mom and dad were asleep

We teased each other over
who would be able to
mingle with the angels

And whispered in disbelief about how

Mom and Dad could give It all up
for all this laborious suffering.
^ ^ ^

I suppose
they never knew how
to listen. I asked them
why they loved you more.
They told me it was all in my head.

I don’t know why they lied to me.

29
 You are as pure as -Eden-
but this time, too precious to lose.

^ ^ ^

It drove me crazy
seeing the sky open up for your smoke
and then blow wind at mine.

The angels forsook me before death.

Well,
now,
you and I know.

But it is not too late for you.

No,
the world still loves you,
and it will mourn your innocence,

For this is the only way to keep it eternal.

^ ^ ^

If I did not become original sin,

you might have.

Now I have made sure, you get to see

Heaven.

No need to thank me, little brother.

30 C a r l os Qui n t e r os III
 Peel Out

At six, the boy finally found a way to be in the same

room as his father. They began restoring a 1967
Camaro together. The boy had no interest in the
mechanics of cars, but he still woke up at six in the
morning to wipe down the body with a dust towel.
He would spend hours watching his father tinker
away at the engine and would light up if he was told
to do something. Most of the time, he would be asked
to grab some tools from the workbench. It took the
boy a while to understand which tools were needed
by his father, but as he became more familiar with
the sizes of sockets, their conversations became less
mechanical.

On one particular night, the father invited the boy

to sit in the passenger seat while he tried to start
the motor. He put the key into the ignition, held his
breath, and flipped his wrist, causing the engine to
roar. The boy’s father yelped in disbelief, banging
his left hand against the leather stitched steering
wheel while holding his son’s shoulder in his right,
exclaiming,

I love you!

The following day, at five fifty-nine, the boy walked

into an empty garage and learned that oil was thicker
than blood.

Ca rlos Qu i nt e ros III 31

 ah O’Neal
Sar
Th ere
is N o G o i n g B a c k

Your hand like a ghost in mine

I show you the rocks I used to climb
I pick the flowers that should have
Covered California’s cliffs
Had the colonizers never showed up
With their cattle and grass

I watch the Bay from the passenger seat

The setting sun turning the wetlands gold

It could have been so different

But there is no going back

I used to dream of bringing him back

Dusting the dirt off his forehead
And helping him climb out of his grave

But even then his voice wouldn’t be his voice

And his blood would be too thick
And I’d rather the Baba alive
by my remembering

There is no going back

To the time before
There is only the laughter
We harvest this summer
There is only these seeds
And the world we choose to sow 33
 Wellness Check
I do not require attribution
I do require care, shoulder rubs
Tender words that melt the guard down
Yesterday it was isa’s voice and honey lemon tea
Today it’s the mourning doves reminding me to
breathe
I require lovers and loved ones
I can’t always differentiate
I require patience and time and long pauses
To make room for the unexpected
Whether it be a rainbow at daybreak or
A child with chocolate ice cream melting
down their sweet face
I required so much as a child and learned
to ask for so little
That now, it’s painful to ask at all
I am learning to require
Learning to voice when I am let down
Before I just walk away
Learning that leaving isn’t the only way to stay safe

34 S a ra h O ’ N e a l
I am relearning safety and protection
And the kind of life I want
With big windows that shine light all the way
through
I am letting the light in
Isa says they see it there, knotted in my shoulders,
tense across my spine
Sometimes, the blood gets so caught up
It barely reaches my fingers
And I don’t want to live like this anymore
And I don’t want to die like this either
All the stress and worry and sorrow all backlogged
And unable to get out of my body
And I am so tired
Thinking about my foremothers
Thinking of Audre and June and how they suffered
in the end
Gone before their time and I feel it catch up to me
Wrangled in my throat
Something or another always fishes my father’s name
out of me
And the stories I know I need to tell
And the stories I have been unable to avoid
This whole short and long life of mine
And I don’t want to be this tired you know?
I don’t want to be tired when there’s still so much
work to do
Sa ra h O’ Ne a l 35
 Gardens to plant, storms to weather
Love to make
I thought I knew what life was
When I was younger
And rage was always at the tip of my tongue
Always ready to fight
Always ready to make my case
But all battles are not mine
And all battles are not won
I am learning to wait by the water
And let the salt loosen the grief in my ankles
Let the waves sing a song older than this one
Remember what it is to be born
Remember what it is to be gone
And use this little time
Caught between my fingers
To hold someone’s hand
To breathe a little less alone

36 S a ra h O ’ N e a l
 ian Giles
Lill

Ch oir

I remember my mother trying to teach me how

to sing. It’s an odd concept, being taught to leave the
mouth wide open while trying to relax the diaphragm,
I felt a bit like prey, guard down. Steady reminders
that reflexes are impairments. I resist. She tries again
and again, her exasperation code for the lessons’
importance. Getting the voice out properly no matter
the cost is worth discomfort.

Ancestors in Stereo

Early on, it is my grandmother who finds the

traits of my grandfather in my face. Her gaze searches
the rise of my cheekbones, the sure shape of my
chin. She lingers longest at where my eyes crinkle
round the edges. She’s had years for this startle to
wane, the shock of her first love’s reflection so clear
in me. Her approval at these similarities given in a
wink or a nod. He’s shown himself in my dreams or
goes far enough to whisper in my ear, military photo,
sepia tones fading too quickly. A guardian, a beacon
for me. His tone eases my foot off of the gas pedal
as the deep blue of the bay winks at me. I aim to
release his tension, have done this since before I
knew grandpa died this way. Remember them, the
likeliness of their features. He fades with a buzzing

37
 in his head and mine. I feel my foot press deeper into
the gas pedal. I shed the fears of those that came
before me on a daily basis.

Cacophony of Cousins

All of my cousins call my mother when they’re

unsure whether life will be worth it in the end. You
too? Me too. Her phone rings as if she’s their favorite
store just opened, only it’s always after midnight. The
yearning to reach for anything sharp or more pills, is
harnessed by her voice. We are just under the ceiling
of young, the fine line past it coming soon. Ma says
this is what she is left to carry because all of her
brothers have died. I am the one constant with calls
to my mother, am always greeted by her excitement
and once I give up drinking for good, I manage to
keep my phone calls to normal daylight hours...mostly.
I imagine my cousins and how we pull and stretch
our comparisons to fit. You smoke camels too? We must
be soulmate cousins. Gin’s your drink? Oh, not after last
year’s visit to the cemetery on the fourth of July. Umm
hmm. In our even younger years, bottles are snuck
from easily swayed back-country liquor-houses into
car trunks. Cigarette boxes are smushed into pockets
and linger behind backs with smoke trails telling
poorly kept secrets above our heads. Everything
happens above us, but none of them, including my
mother the nurse, tells us that we are too much, that
we do too much. We drink too much. We smoke
too much. They never think we are excessive, even
though we are. DNA shaped in perfect spirals for
everyone else’s family to reveal clear codes. Not ours.
Ours has the edges blurred. But where mine is missing

38 L i lli an G i l e s
interpretation from uncles too early gone, my previous
imaginings of being stretched to fit are proved wrong.
My cousins reveal codes in perfect overlay.
Emotions pour out of us pooling at our feet until
every one of us is standing in a shallow lake of grief,
reeking of our stagnant woes, our voices a haze to all
but us. A perfect circle. The surviving adults have the
patience of a stone. Our outpours ring with a cadence
only blood can hear. I can call any one of my cousins
at two, three, four a.m. and they will answer.

Native

My great-grandmother’s hair is so black and

straight, I feel as if I can hide behind it like a curtain
with a sheer view. I rake my fingers through it, hang
combs from it, fold brushes into it that get stuck.
She never chides me. She is silent and tall and I
collect only a few handfuls of words from her in
my twenty-two years but many smiles. She calls me
he, often when I am little, her usual grin returning.
Punctuation expressed clearly in her face. I do not
remember this tendency of hers, the switching of
pronouns until I am well beyond twenty-two. Feeling
out of place ain’t something I can afford, she says. She
speaks slowly in a way that makes me wonder if she
caresses the language like so because this tongue is
not something that ever belonged to us. A colonizer’s.
Much of what was once endless seeped in the bottom
of the sea. Me too, I say, wanting to fit in with this
silent statue woman. Most of the time she swallows
words whole, pats them deep within her chest. A
reclaiming? They must turn into something else once
inside of her, something more familiar, something

Li lli an Gi le s 39
more like home. She sleeps in bed next to my mother
after my parents’ divorce, squeezing her in close, the
crook of her arm cradling my mother’s cheek. They
fit, even though great-grandmother is so long. My
great-grandmother and grandmother stay with us for
a year to ensure my mother’s grief passes through her.
They put it through the dryer, shove it into pots of
boiled peanuts, bake it into apples, play it in gospel
music that drifts lowly over our off-white carpet.
They collect it in rainstorm buckets before trudging
out to empty them. When we stand in a row, the four
of us, we look like dolls that have birthed the next
one all by herself. There are no questions here. If I tilt
my head a little, I will see that I belong in the crook
of each elbow.

Searching for a Final Say

My parents say that knowledge is a privilege,

it saves lives. They remind me that I must be better
than average. I’m not permitted to get away with
what’s passable. But I have a dead grandfather who is
thrilled anytime I am not in a car crash and a great-
grandmother who was delighted with my life before
I began living it.

Years later, my grandmother lingers in my

mother’s hospital room. My mom has been rushed
to the ICU with bacterial meningitis. My grandma’s
eyes graze over her child, her first born. She does not
hang on to the rails or lean over the bed as I do. She
is fine from afar. Days later, after the doctors say that
my mother will live, my grandmother refuses church
for the first time in her life. I wonder if she is looking

40 L i lli an G i l e s
for something more, maybe not to be the survivor of
her two remaining children, when she began with five.
She says all of this with a gentle brush of her hand
between my shoulder blades as she turns to walk
away. None of us is overly talkative. We abstain from
words for long stretches as if we’re dieting. Words
make us sick, make us well, make us whole. It is our
attempt to see, unsee, put pen to paper to capture the
story while it remains ours.

Li lli an Gi le s 41
 x Feliciano Me
A le jía
C ricular
Archauer
o l o g y V o l. 1

I’m focusing on two colleges, two universities, five

hundred years apart. 16 years, 16th century, 16 mil-
limeters, 16 weeks spent hunched over materials from
one college in the library of another. The remains of
one library in another, each one a trace of the other,
and both suggesting something about the students
who held these, who were held by these books.

Making fists while sitting in buildings whose walls

cry out white reminders that this is not for you.
To squeeze the trigger on a bullhorn so polemic
frequencies resound throughout the walkways, rip
the curriculum, blend it to pulp, let the fibers lock in
third world ways.

Stepping in quiet time, riotous horizon, can’t help but

build revolutionary artifice out of repurposed pink
slips and blue books. There is always this with that,
enemy and comrade in between administrator and
mass striker.

They may not have known that there was room for
them inside here, so the chalkboards they erased
are the ones I see in 2008.

43
 ///

What I find in front of me is a seminar syllabus:

Aztec Philosophy, Fall 2008.

I sit in the library handling the books, pouring over

each word, studying each Codex, writing notes in
the margins. And each time I turn the page I notice
certain sources popping back up. The Florentine
Codex. Codex Mendoza. The Codex of Tlatelolco.

Codices made of Amatl, bark paper, Indigenous pa-

permaking techniques. Inner bark of figtree, beaten
to pulp, stretched and dried. Fibers locked in grooves,
this was for writing. Writing histories that so many
book burning bishops tried to destroy.

How is it that this codex was written after–after–the

Spanish colonized these lands? Why would these
colonists allow this paper to be made? These images
to be drawn? This story to be told?

I step past the stacks and trip on a hardcover edition

not mentioned in the syllabus. St. Francis. San
Francisco. Francsicans. Friars. First western colonial
college of their “New World” – the site of production
for the Florentine Codex.

Now, behind every piece of amatl, a brown robed

figure standing and pointing toward a scribe, tlacuilo,
working at a desk, writing the story of the conquest,
both of them stopping sometimes, staring back at me.

///

44 Al e x F e l i c i an o M e jí a
I learned they came first as three and soon after as
twelve. Twelve Franciscan Friars, Twelve Apostles
of México, ready to realize a vision of total human
emancipation through the final frontier: christianiz-
ing their “New World.”

These twelve friars think they’re different than the

settler colonists. The settlers want things in Spanish,
to hispanicize the Nahuas, but the twelve want to
Christianize them, and for this to occur any language
will do. In fact, they know it makes sense to do
things in Nahuatl.

They write in the margins of these Renaissance

humanist books, composing notes on how to enact a
humanistic education. The Franciscans smuggle these
books in–the viceroyal of Spain bans them. They
sneak in books to share with their students because
they, these Franciscan colonial Friars, believe in
these students’ capacities to become rhetors, creative
agents of both written and spoken language, and they
even dream of them becoming priests–something the
rest of the Spanish settlers call heresy.

Scholars emerged from their education, the sons and

daughters of the Nahua elites studied at the College
the Franciscans opened, El Colegio de la Santa Cruz
de Tlatelolco. They composed books in Nahuatl that
recorded their community’s traditions of medicinal
practices, they assembled texts that chronicled their
community’s stories prior to Spanish colonization,
and they produced the codices that formed the basis
of the texts I studied in Aztec Philosophy class.

Al e x F e li ci ano Me jí a 45
 ///

I see five hundred years of confusion, miscegenated

relations of thought between each shot of print,
each letter extruded, standing up to greet the pho-
tographic flash transposed to screens. I see the move
between glass, that I look through, that sees you, a
figure start to emerge, someone writing, an eye that
sees tlacuilo labor, inscribing copies of Latin onto
amatl, each stroke of their instruments tempering
any instruction that would make less of you simply
because of who brought you to this land. Make less
of me for missing the point this whole time: book to
book, book to me, books on films that hand histories,
curricularly colonizing in collegiate and calmecac
form–these pedagogies breathe and each lung inflates
before exhaling ethnic students studying objects
whose essence no one claims to be.

Pedagogi, with an i, no y, no page number, produced

in Spain with Italian means, these Latin books
smuggled through surveillance from the censors.
Codices constructed from notes, left on edges of
Quintilian, two traditions divided in one. One
divides into two, limp laced binding caressing edges
of pulp pulled through, handing over printing presses
for the students who run the school.

Four hundred and thirty two years before nineteen

sixty eight.

///

46 Al e x F e l i c i an o M e jí a
Walls, doors, pages, cells, frames, sprockets, rewinds,
boxes, margins, scans, projections.

These archives exhale hands on surfaces–almost

resting places for tools from another time–were it not
for the books that call the hands. Handling material:
stacks of cans call hands fast, requested folios request
those typing, arranging foam blocks on request so the
texts can open themselves. These dead animate the
hands, though not without forethought. Forefamilies,
traditions of investigation to carefully curate the
questions that can be posed. Something is someone,
somewhere shaping time spent sitting, looking,
listening,

This curricular archaeology is an initial phase, pre-

liminary findings peeking out of recesses of these
institutional walls. Pages turned, frames spliced,
analog to digital conversions, manicules aren’t the
only thing indexing objects, ordering items with the
care of subject matter competency; subjectivities seen
in mediated formats, they bow us out with whispers.

Al e x F e li ci ano Me jí a 47
 eh Kenned
Tad y
Di n
Nailsparate Thoughts oide
B itin g an d G e n o c

I first bit my nails when I was five years old attending

Armenian School. They were grey and dirty and felt
like fresh almonds. For years, I experimented with
different nail-biting techniques, going down bit-
by-bit to the bed, or peeling off the top layer into a
single transparent sliver. Extremely painful if I erred
and pulled into my finger, often left with hangnails,
infections, and open raw bites. I learned too, there
is no such thing as stillness with nails, instead a
constant pressing, a tiny growth in every moment,
a gentle persistent torque. Growing up Armenian
means that at a young age I heard stories of stacked
bodies and of men getting hung by their nails. I am
hesitant to say we only now begin to unravel, instead
that we have only ever known unraveling. Erasing
and perishing seem an event and an end and an un-
raveling all together. My butchered nails grow back.
I keep them intact and ease them out the tips of my
fingers.

49
 Myn Khi
rla ne
Ka
C afé So nnet
Once I ate the wrong thing, served on a white ceramic
plate,
the oracular beauty soaked in lavender syrup—
a single slice of Deathcake.
The café patrons watched me do housekeeping,
go to my end:
wow, she’s an acceptor, a grade-A coper. She’s come to terms
with her casualty.
It taught me nothing is ever too small to séance
meaning from its measures,
ever unable to be too unextravagant or independent
from worth.
Though, I still do stupid things like consider a
misprinted shirt a miracle,
allow people who only talk into my life, shed my
money too soon.
If there is one thing I’d call myself, it’s circus-throated.
I say words as if there are acrobats at their ends,
swinging them into sentence as Time waits by the door
for my elapse.

I’ve seen a scene like this in a film before—

a lover waiting
for her beloved only to be greeted by another
version of herself.
51
 Roadside Assistance,
Where Are You?
All I can make out is a view of the sky—
from a bat-laden cave—
the drip of guano curiously to
the tune of Mozart’s “Don Giovanni”—
and a row of compact cars
surrounding the parklet of a Thai restaurant—
also on international waters—
also functioning as a bureau of investigations—
where a box—for a front-facing wooden bowl
filled with Caesar salad, maybe filled
with the words of Caesar himself—
rests on top of his toga as a tablecloth—
“And you, too?”—the words tumble out frantically
when tossed like the need to survive—
though I’d be relieved
to die like him—to learn I’m not bigger than
any one person—
to learn of refrain—how to retaliate—
humans are like this—
full of sauce—among all our leafy greens—

52 K a r l a Myn K h i n e
 things we call “flaws”—
oh, to be bloodless—pumping air and new
sad things—
into limbs, into moderate riots of the limbs—
where this accident has taken place—
only you can reach me—so
hold your hand out—stretched and willing—
for the possibility of me taking it—
with both hands I take our voices
to push the moment apart

Ka rla Myn Kh i ne 53
 From 5 to 7
5:00 – In a café
French lavender lattes
Have a strange appeal...
Their taste nests on your
Tongue and settles among
The papillae, much how
I’d imagine fur or hair does
When brushed with rough bristles.

The sex of this drink

Would be female
and if she was my wife,
I’d never leave her.
I’d take her—bitter,
Stagnant, and all.

But what’s keeping everything in place?

This brew in my mouth,
My favorite sweater on my
Heaving chest,
The woman reading Lacan
Next to me with
Croissant crumbs on her lap,
My mother and father,
My chair on the tilted curb.

54 K a r l a Myn K h i n e
Dear implacable forces, what could I do
for just a bit of will?

6:00 – All over the map

Contemporary movement
With a bedhead: typical Saturday.

The trolley cars ring by and I’m

Captured vertically on the various
Cameras of their passengers.

Stacie, the pharmacist, says my

Prescription isn’t ready yet.

Oh, I see. It’s not ready like it hasn’t

Been formed. Or maybe not ready

Like my sister when she was pregnant

At fifteen, frightened more by childbirth
Than the looming prospect of motherhood.
In this meantime, I read Chekhov’s Ivanov at
A small café whose iced lattes are nothing
Notable enough to provoke a bypass thought.

There’s a singular latex glove on the street,

Joined by ripped plastic bags, wrappers, a stick.

I imagine how it got there—a clumsy surgeon,

A forgetful maid, perhaps a one-armed germophobe.

Ka rla Myn Kh i ne 55
I’ll never be sure, like many things, but I’ll try in this
hour left to reduce the nonsense, to reduce my
absolution.

7:00 – In somebody’s house

To my right, I see glowing foothills
Resting on earth’s bosom,
Acting as a pagoda enveloped with life.

I find that here in suburbia, time swells with

complacency,
per the layouts, per the dispositions—the bulk
looseness.

Intimately, I’m using my bottle of water

As time markers for my wellness.
I’m at 34 ounces and I’ve realized how
Adverbs are my only real friends.

Glaring out this dining room windowpane, I see

Two lovers on the wet grass, illuminated by
A car’s headlights and slightly, from the streetlamp
above.

Although lovely to see, couples are like icebergs.

You only see ten percent of their chosen surface.

Her long hair suddenly lifts from a gust of wind,

Interfering their conversation,
and they both reach to settle the matter.

56 K a r l a Myn K h i n e
The same gust causes a ladybug to land on the
windowpane
which reminds me that I need to take my birth
control.

Man, I love to watch the way the wind blows.

What does it know that I don’t yet?

Ka rla Myn Kh i ne 57
 h Lê & Zêdan X
in el
r ef
T
Note on
C o l l a b o r at i o n

We, the poets, met in the Year of the Dragon, on

Ohlone waters. A confluence of the Mekong & Tigris,
we came together to explore the abundant poetry
in the space we share. We shared time with water,
with trees, with mountains, with bodies in space, in
community, in poetry. We wrote in response to each
other’s prompts for the sake of the process, with all of
its mishearings. Trinh gave Zêdan a prompt to write
about their hair, while Zêdan gave Trinh a prompt to
write about monuments. We were also interested in
how energy moves in jueju as a form, and specifically,
the form’s monosyllabic nature, which comes from
Chinese as a monosyllabic language, a feature our
womb tongues share. But as two feral Leo pervform-
ers, we could not help but deviate from the form, and
that manifested in the poem “Two Leos.” Here we go:

59
 Haptic Monuments

Dear plant mother,

I am curled inside a bubble, iridescent shrimp,

floating on an easterly wind to you.

I left Katz’s Modern Berkeley trash heap with two

lithographs: thin fibery paper mounted on foam
board, with printed English translations:

“Vietnam has gained complete victory on April

30, 1975, and both the North and South head
toward Socialism”

“Nothing is more important than Independence

and Freedom.”

I meant to say PRECIOUS.

Truong and I set up our woodshop on Haight St. to

cut frames for his woodgrain landscapes. It’s all angle
cuts and loose thumbs, squinting through sawdust as
we disrupt staged hippie civility.

They whitewashed Michael Jang’s wheatpaste collage

on California St.

I am thinking of my monuments, not of concrete,

but that which reseeds itself in eternal cycles, those

60 T r i n h L ê & Z ê dan Xe le f
whom they forget to name. The plants that tell us
who we are.

They are our names. Their taste my name. Their stain

my name.

In sleep, my lover’s hand wanders, their fingers

breathe like branching clauses.

The tendermost places, the supple, life-giving places,

the inside elbow of Earth, the Mother that has
so blessed those places—desecrated, ruptured by
misplaced grief.

Touch it. Be touched. We touch history everyday.

I was born an animal, sought to be civilized, now

endeavor to return, to return to…

Tri nh Lê & Zê dan Xe le f 61

 Compost the United States

THE BAY AREA IS THE ASS CRACK OF THE

UNITED STATES
& FROM ITS DECADENT SHIT, THE WITCHES,
THE ALCHEMISTS, THE POETS
THE MULTI-CHANNEL SITE-SPECIFIC FILM
INSTALLATION ARTISTS—
YES, ESPECIALLY THEM, COMPOST:

LANGUAGE
SINGULARITY
OLD STORIES
OLD FEARS
MY DESIRES
MY PRAYERS
THE NARRATIVE
THE PAGE
THE MARGINS
MOVES TO INNOCENCE
COMPLICITY
ME

COMPOST ME.

THE TUMULT OF HISTORY DIMS SO GRASS

MIGHT GROW

62 T r i n h L ê & Z ê dan Xe le f
 Mechanical Birds snip Over
My Headfield [excerpt]
This morning,
I draw aside my sun worshippers’ flag curtain,
To investigate the weather
“What are you doing standing naked by the window?”
The man from White Horse I hooked up with last
night asks.
I just wanted to check out the weather, then I got busy
thinking about all the dewy plants and car windshields.
“Dude, that’s not something worth getting out of bed
for. You can check the weather on your phone, just
like checking time. Then you’re probably looking too
much like a gay billboard to everyone walking their
dog on the street.”
He says alternating looks between me and his phone
screen while doom scrolling on Instagram.
I journal in the bathroom as I shit:
I am low on food in my fridge, but I can probably
make him an avocado toast.
How should I do my hair today? Maybe I should ask
him to weave my braids in turn for the avocado toast.
This is for you, I point at the avocado toast talking to
the man who just came out of my shower. And also,
the water is boiling, what kind of tea would you like?

Tri nh Lê & Zê dan Xe le f 63

“Ty, ty, I am actually allergic to avocados.”
Too bad, I think, but maybe I can still ask him to help
braid my hair.
Sorry to hear that, man. Would you like to have a tea?
He browses my shelf, saying: “All your teas are
caffeine free.”
Yes, I drink a lot of tea, and I quit caffeine a while ago.
“Oh it’s almost 9.” He grabs his jacket and rushes out,
blowing a kiss.
My bathroom mirror is steamed.
I think to myself, he must have taken a quick shower
and did not look at himself in the mirror just like any
man with short hair.
I feel unattracted and leave the text he just sent me
unread.
I wipe out my mirror with my hand, my hair locks
remind me of my notebook with the Great Wave off
Kanagawa texture.
I look for my notebook. I find it on the toilet seat in
the same position I left it while brushing my teeth.
Did he not use the bathroom this morning?
I frame my latest reflection with red ink, and label it:
Unrealized. No avocado, no braids.
My dewy mirror reminds me of the weather again.
I crane my neck through the window:
Oakland’s sky boasts cirrocumulus clouds
The yang of my yin hair.
I rinse off my hair mask.

64 T r i n h L ê & Z ê dan Xe le f
What fruit do you want your coconut scented head to
look like this morning? I ask myself in the mirror.
A broccoli or a pineapple?
Perhaps an onion with sprout, freshly yanked.
I walk into the world shedding my top layer to feed a
snail
I walk further until I am my shadow away from the
snail
Three crows perch on my shadow head for a feast
Two of them share the onion layer, the other crow
pecks at the snail.

Tri nh Lê & Zê dan Xe le f 65

 Jueju for a 21st Century

red bridge fog shrouds boat sails slow

jet plowed ash frig new tide flow
lift eye find birds tern past crow
grief man lung fraught friend past foe

66 T r i n h L ê & Z ê dan Xe le f
 Two Leos

duct tape my vape

sweet date bad faith
sphinx twin le guin
boy toy toy boy
fair fight far sight
tsk tsk it’s risk
fair game no fame
bowl hiss ball kiss
bee hive high five
bees tease yes please

Tri nh Lê & Zê dan Xe le f 67

 Bisase
Kato
T
of ah i s o n e d o e s n ’ t h av e m u c hles
s pi n e , b u t it stil l ti c k

let’s play a game:

how old were you
when you realized
most of the things
you’ve learned
you weren’t
taught

by the time
your smile
revealed itself
to be a thief
it was too late,
i’ve been held
captive to an
affable cackle
and a pearl-gated
smirk

peruse the leaves

of my lineage
and something
vatic might climb
into your veins
for a swim

69
 i’ve unraveled
the mummy
of a bad friend
only to find
myself
wrestling with
a mirror

no . . . but I can
teach you
how to hush
your heart
when your eyes
pick up
where your words
left off

70 K at o B i s as e
 Time is God
Our Lord
the wall’s
loudest fly
why have
you turned
our eyes
into your
playground?
kneading mini
droughts under
our soggy
vitreous
windows
harboring
testimonies of
your alchemy
because
i know it’s you we truly worship / it’s you whom we teach ourselves to
respect / it’s you that is the bedrock of age & urgency & discipline / it’s
you that holds dominion over money’s value / it’s you that dances clocks
/ it’s you that heals our traumas / it’s you puppeteering our fate / it’s you
sketching our schedules / it’s you baking your agenda into the sky’s palette /
forgive me, God
i have been
stale in
this race
& we have
inhaled the
smoke of
manmade
religion
& we have
been choking
on its mirrors
& you have
been
emboldened
by death.
God, take it
easy on me.

Amen. 71
 Ambivalent mirage

one of the strangest feelings in school they don’t

i’ve ever been dealt teach us
is getting which side
exactly of the road trip
what i wanted to munch on

let me read
the helicopter’s diary
before it’s too late

the scariest juncture performances freckled

is when we go with fear
from couple and smooches
to duo

to think
we thought
tying the knot
would suit us, well

there’s a reason i wasn’t born

we never see a gymnast
the same rainbows but now i know
but get assaulted how to gurgle
by the same night sweats in silence

72 K at o B i s as e
 Keep Tinted

Did you know windows aren’t the only

tinted creatures amongst us?
I once knew the man i learned this from.

His social dexterity

was the lighthouse
of his charm,
but he pimped nuances
tucked his intentions miles from sincerity.
There were people he’d known for years
to whom he refused to reveal himself.

Where they saw charisma, i saw mischief.

I saw a man dribbling
his identity, bouncing
from one version
of himself
to the next, more focused
on switching codes
than cracking them.

But selling
authenticity for acceptance
is bad business.

Kat o Bi sase 73
 is tina S. Ménde
Cr z
L o n g Way B a c k t o
Palatka Lane

Four-lane highway, 19 miles move slowly. Meditate

on vines growing ragged over beige and red fading
walls. Count each start and slowdown, feel inching
closer. See cars swerve distractedly. Now we’re
approaching. Sway right to merge, slow long curve
yielding to those already arrived. Keep driving, two
more lights to pass.

Notice street filled with idle cars and one stray cat.
Approach a small house, usual gathering place. Leaves
brush against patio floor, kicked up by soft breeze.
Smoke wafts up lazily. Rocking chair pulsing against
ground, fades. Step inside, a house too full of passing
through. Lights on in the kitchen. Stove still hot to
the touch. Clasp hands around a mug, lukewarm
coffee, past ready to be sipped. Sit in kitchen waiting
to depart again.

Sun sets early now

Chisme nudges chimes together
Smile past longing

75
 Our Sacred Sunday Rituals

Steaming streams of cafecito, one by one

steady rattling of cups against each other,
clinking spoons and hissing azucar
a rhythmic, shuffling gathers us
together

Swirling azucar y crema, transubstantiation

turns this cafecito into an elixir that births

smothered laughter at the cochinada tía just

said, against
a choir of protests and guffaws ringing out

Lay down the spoon tenderly,

A drop of umber coffee still pooling
in its gentle curve. Place each mug
before you, an offering

with a smile tugging, cover mouth

bow head, solemn as the choir subsides.

Brush hands over smooth leather,

Carefully unclasp the latches
taking each tile out, stack two by two
jade green stark against the bright table,
four walls built to hold this ritual

76 C r i s t i n a S . Mé n d e z
 Christen first with chisme, fades
and becomes sermons y dichos

Purposeful, steady movements

take one tile, drop another. Unspoken
strategy, musing silences
consecrate the day.
Lilting voices, goating and cackling
over jokes told too many times

Empty mugs catch the last bits of day

filtering through the skylight
clear the altar for another day

Besos y abrazos, hurried and slowed

by night air creeping through doors.
Promises of next time and another day
kiss the cool air, welcoming a new week.

Cri st i na S. Mé nde z 77
 icia Guzman
Let
Remember Me Brave

After a series of femicides in the Bay Area. In memory of Zoe Reidy,

Britney Ligdis and the endless unnamed victims.

If you find me in an abandoned apartment, Lay daisies

over my bruises.

Let my body decompose with the flowers.

Let the neighbors smell my pain.

If you find a packed bag, know that I searched for the

courage.

Leave my belongings untouched, Remember me as

Brave.

Ask my brother for my childhood diaries, Interview

my family about my joy.

Know my spirit is in the air. This world never cared

about my body until it became a headline- So
Make my story trend, Plant gardens in my memory.

Leave my poems in the dirt.

79
 How to Summon Me
To summon me, You’ll need
To play My favorite Taylor swift song
You’ll need a letter from the first boy I ever kissed
My first loves eyelash
A tear of your own.
A long lost funky earring
A splash of pumpkin spice latte
The only photo of my mother smiling.
Say the stories of my family and you’ll get my spirit
Lay out a spread of Taco Bell and Oreos.
Share your biggest heartbreak-
Why summon me if not for chisme
Or connection
Or a sharing of two hurt souls
Summon me with intention and I’ll tell you my story
All of the paths I walked in and all of the paths I
missed
Every mistake I could’ve made worse
Summon me and know that I am a haunting
lingering feeling.
I am in the trees.

I am In the clouds.

80 L e t i c i a G uz m an
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