Blinding Damage.

He stood there, bright eyed and tow headed
singing boldly and beaming with pride.
He tried his best to sing all the words,
keeping time with the kids who knew,
the kids who fit.
He couldn't see that anything was wrong.
He clutched that book, shouted that song,
and connected with the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You sat there, angry and pig-headed,
blinded by your baggage and drowning in your damage.
You tried your best to form the words
inflicting pain and causing hurt,
a hurt you just won't own.
You couldn't see that you were wrong.
You shut your heart, and closed your mind,
And refused to see him meet the world in new and awesome ways.
And you missed it.
You missed another opportunity.
You missed another milestone.
You missed another smile, another joy, another day.
You missed it all.
But I,
I was there.

Should

I should have known better
than to trust you with my heart.
I should have known better
than to give you the truth.
I should have known better
than to hope you'd know what to do.
I should have known better
than to make you so important.
I should have known better,
but I didn't.
I trusted you with my heart,
and you broke it.
I gave you the truth,
and you made it a weapon.
I hoped you'd know what to do,
and you failed to do it.
I made you important,
and you made me invisible.
I didn't know better when I should have,
but I do now.

Where I Come From*

I come from many streets that all lead nowhere,
and houses that were never ours, from moving boxes and strange places and customs not my own.
I come from babies crying and mama singing,
the smell of cakes in the oven and the sound of her sewing machine.
I come from Loretta and Raymond,
Soldiers, each in their own way.
I come from Legos, monster trucks, and Franken-Barbies,
wrestling, sand boxes, swings, and dancing to the music in our heads.
I come from salsa, beans and rice, tortillas on the comal,
and my mother's lasagna too big for the pan, but only on holidays.
I come from "You can, and you will", "They don't know you", and "Don't let them win."
I come from a place where knowledge is power, the best things come from nothing, and everything is earned.
I come from Pride and Tenacity.
I come from a place rooted in love and family
a place that is constantly changing and growing
a place that thrives on togetherness and accomplishment.
That, is where I come from.

*This was a writing exercise in a seminar I attended last weekend. It's based on the poem "Where I Come From" by F. Isabel Campoy seen in the Second Creative Activity found here. I liked it so thought I'd share.

Hold Me

Hold me down
to drown them out
Kill me in the process

Hold me tight
to hide the light
Blind me with that kindness

Hold me up
to keep me dry
Lose me in the blandness

Hold me close
to keep me safe
Hurt me in that harness

But hold me close
to simply hold me
Find me in the caress

Baby Blues

To my Victor and my Oscar

Little fingers
Little toes
Big blue eyes
And button nose
I've spent a lifetime
Making do
But nine short months
On making you
My little boy
My heart and soul
You brought me back
And made me whole
Now I live
To see you through
To give you more
Than making do

Lunch With A Republican

A tempest brews in the sanctuary of my thoughts
behind the smile that feeds you, masking my contempt for you, encourages you to continue sharing your venom.
You've found an ally, a believer, a right thinker, maybe even a friend, or so you think.
I fill my mouth with food rather than bite my tongue or unleash the truth.
The Gods forbid I speak too soon.
Bleeding heart liberals, immigrants, and welfare trash will destroy the country your (our) ancestors fought so hard to build.
Suddenly I am full.
I wipe away the residue of lunch clinging to my face and with it the facade.
The sanctuary can no longer contain the tempest.
You are drenched in the fury of a heart that bleeds for the innocent, incapable, and the absent minded.
Awash in the horror of dissent,
you take your lunch to go.

For Lack of a Penis

Failed faery tales and disembodied dreams
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.

The men in my family,
Proud Mexican men
Have first born sons.
They have daughters too.
But not first,
Never first.
What then, was he to do with me.
The audacity with which I entered the world,
first in line, potentially the only one in line.
What was I thinking,
leaving my womb without my penis?
A mistake that would earn me a lifetime
of reminders of my inadequacies.
An affront to his masculinity, his machismo.
He blamed my mother,
said she didn't eat enough meat
to make a boy.
In seventh grade,
we learned about sex,
the kind you have and the kind you are.
Funny how one little stroke is all that separates
an X from a Y.
I told my father that he was to blame
for my lack of a penis.
That I hadn't forgotten it at all.
There was never a penis to forget.
Again with the audacity,
the affront,
and this time, it was me who didn't eat enough meat
to keep me sane.
God is punishing me he said, but I was the one who got the spanking.
He left.
Reproductive disappointment overwhelmed him.
Three sons could not make amends for
the usurper,
for me.

His failed faery tales and disembodied dreams,
Masculinity not desired and apology not an option.
At least not by me.