When you say I’m too loud, I carry the boombox of a Bronx summer block party higher on my back. I’m in love with the loud of my voice, I treat you well with my truth. The macaw and I...

Amanezco en este futuro sin ti— ——————————algo raro, grave. Me acuerdo de tus manos todas jorobadas por el artritis y como siempre me despertabas así con una rascadita en los pies y un tierno “Gooood mooorning!” Dicen que pasa el...

It is a reminder that my parents did not just immigrate to Nueba Yol; they also time-travelled to a future time period where: machismo is less overt, gender norms are a decade or two more progressed, certain Spanish-to-English translations are...

Mami, ¿cómo se dice fountain? Pileta, muñeca. Pileta pileta pileta Oh right Don’t forget You might need to recall that word later Que bella es esa pileta                           ...

for my father, who wakes up in the dark, and through storm or errant sickness, must ferry strangers to whomever may be waiting for them on the other side. for my mother, who must don vest and name tag to...

Encima de aguas agitadas se encuentra una lengua más temblorosa. Una boca que quiere asentarse como el sol al atardecer. Asentarse en las palabras del español como si fuera un pájaro que atrapa un pez-presa. Como si fuera parte del...

My Abuelo used to peel them for me— warm brilliant spheres of varying sizes. He’d tear back their rinds in tiny bits, as much as his aging fingers could manage, then wrap them in plain white paper towels & place...

the Cuban bread/the crackers/el cafe/ the crumbs/and the place- mats/the open door/ la reja/the gate/la llave/the key/the cigar/ the smoke/los numeritos/the days numbered/todo esto/all of this/ los papelitos/the little papers/& all the little reminders/aqui/awakened with love/alive todo de recuerdos/nunca los...

My skin is a tightrope teetering, a tongue captive, chains halting the steps of my ghetto, a scythe, a subway pole chafing the larynx silent. This skin, that weeps wears crowns, stolen—the mighty, fallen to thirst. Medieval cities drag oceans, trail pale venom under tongue, a bull’s lisp spills secrets of ancient trampled bodies. I...

Barely 17 years old, and yet I’d fight with anyone who dared To tell me that Spanglish wasn’t A language. Spanglish was so deeply intertwined With my identity, that any attempt To invalidate it Was an attempt To invalidate me. The only thing I knew how to speak where I didn’t have to censor, filter, or hinder the only language learning allowed...