Woman

I began with a straight-laced, corcet-lined, prepackaged clutch makeup idea of
what it means to be a woman. From the dresses of Dr. Quinn's nightmare, to middle school bonnabell lipgloss - tactics to make me be right, to be loved, to some day be the woman the world told me to be,
I bought it all and pinned myself against a wall of hidden resistance.
It was in Introduction to Women's Studies, from the 10th row on the 10th day, that I realized
the recipe is all wrong. It doesn't matter how much sugar, spice, and sugarcoated docility
I might dole out, this was not the road to respect, to my mind, to the libration of my vagina. 

Self Control [Surf Control]

On the threshold of language
I seek the cavities in which
to hide my insecurities. For every
penny tossed in the fountain, there
are five hundred people who discovered
disappointment in the dead of night.

When will we transcend our wallets
and forge past our
most basic human need?
If we can cognitively construct thoughts
of freedom, songs of change, it is a surprise
to find ourselves wading through hell.
Our capitalistic dreams lend an
easy path to oppression, a lake
to stand in alone while wondering
where all the people went.

I awoke at 1:38am with
some feverish feeling of my own
captivity. I have known the freedom
of wandering as I am inspired, of staking
a claim on my own happiness. It cannot be
the as fleeting as our youth. 

She will spread her legs

She will
spread her legs
like any average
girl getting on an old
four-speed bike. Today
she rides for an invisible
horizon, stretching fingertips
to pass along lush undergrowth
along the bumpy gravel road,
soaking sun in like a flower
left to starve for weeks
in the dead of winter.
Her legs dangle
in the heat of
freedom.

She has not been here
for such a long time.

She will
spread her legs
on crisp fall nights
as she pulls on stockings
under her favorite dress, going
nowhere with some worn-out suitor
who just might become her next lover,
the next flush of optimism and hope
in a previously disappointing sea.
Her legs dangle over the edge
at the fluorescent-lit diner;
tasting disappointment
again and smiling at
the ease of leaving
without uttered
good-byes.

Passing, Trespassing

I have lost my appetite
for half-baked, over-
selfish lovers.

The ones
who spread their words like
sprinkled sugar toppings, a
confection to be
consumed but barely tasted.
You had me dancing in the
streets for you, crossing
oceans and building literal,
giant, un-contained dreams.

You will not hold me
like a small, reserved package
anymore.

I have lost my appetite
for you.

A Little Love

I like to speak of you

in all places, with all sights and people

watching me grasp memories and

favorite jokes about our romance.

And through this, it is as though you

are standing next to me, in a place you

have yet to see.

You came with the dust-filled breeze of

Costa Rica, riding buses to somewhere

North, anywhere but boca blanca,

biding our time in the streets of Liberia.

With each day, I counted more reasons to

bring you a little closer, a little deeper

into my heart, for safekeeping.

When we meet again, I will remember you

as you were in Guatemala, the anxious and ever-moving,

Happy beyond life traveler.