Poetry
2017 “When a Man Loves a Woman.” Black Lives Have Always Mattered: A Collection of Essays, Poems, and Personal Narratives, edited by Abiodun Oyewole, p. 174 New York: 2Leaf Press.
2014 “Pay Attention.” Malpaís Review, Volume 5, Issue No. 3, Winter 2014-2015, p.15.
2014 “Waiting for Something to Fall.” Malpais Review, Volume 5, Issue No. 2, Fall.
2014 “Hoodies.” Malpais Review, Volume 5, Issue No. 2, Fall.
2013 “Tall Rock Pages.” Adobe Walls, an Anthology of New Mexico Poets, Issue no. 5, pp. 132-133.
2013 “Side-by-Side.” Adobe Walls, an Anthology of New Mexico Poets, Issue no. 5, pp. 134-135.
2012 “Do you want me to cut more vegetables, Boss? Anthropology and Humanism, Vol. 37, Issue no. 1, pp. 114-115.
2012 “Tres Amigas.” A chapbook of poems with LeeAnn Meadows and Joanne Townsend. Myrtle Avenue Press, Las Cruces, New Mexico.
2012 “A New Shore: Recent Poems.” A self-published chapbook.
2003 “The Bone Bridge.” Anthropology & Humanism, Vol.28, Issue no.2, pp.208-209.
1998 “We Must Destroy the Seed!” In Voces: An Altar of Stories: Stories of War, Stories of Peace.” Las Cruces: Border Book Festival. Pp. 1-2.
1990 “Reina.” Buffalo Press Anthology I: A Magazine Presenting Writers of Western New York, edited by Peggy Towers, George Grace, John Lawton, Nancy Rybczynski, pp. 58-60. Buffalo, New York.
Selected poems:
Tall Rock Pages
For Deon
You didn’t know me, but I was
your grandma’s friend and friends
are to hug, so you wrapped your
stick-like arms around my shoulders,
rested your head in the curve
of my neck and collar bone and said,
Yá’át’ééh. Hello. Welcome to my home.
I was a stranger but you made
yourself at home in my body’s
familiar architecture, not round
like your grandma’s hooghan,
but a shelter for the time-being,
because time and each other
was what we had there in the canyon.
You led the way as we climbed
the canyon walls, tall rock pages marking time.
You and your little brother scaled
the parts I couldn’t, your hand-made
swords locked in battle, recalling
your ancestors fending off marauding
soldiers until they couldn’t anymore.
Each morning after breakfast
your grandma wrapped your hair bun –
tsiiyééł – worn low because you are a boy.
You hugged her before and after
and whenever you felt the need.
Finally the time came to leave.
You led us out of the canyon,
alerted us to a snake on the path ahead,
brought us to our cars just before we
were drenched by rain – niłts biką’ –
a male rain bringing heavy sheets
of water and hail.
We left you at the Burger King in Chinle,
munching on chicken fingers and fries
between embracing family and friends
as they stopped to greet you.
One last time you wrapped your arms
around me and said, hágoónee’,
Until we cross paths again.
On the way out I scraped the mud
off the bottom of my sneakers,
my heart heavy with loss.
Adobe Walls, an Anthology of New Mexico Poets, Issue no. 5, pp. 132-133, 2013.
Hoodies
come in all colors and sizes
and are good for covering up
when you are cold
or don’t want to be noticed.
The young woman from Honduras
tries a green hoodie on her toddler
and asks me why the boy will need it.
I explain it can be cold
on the bus to Atlanta
where her aunt lives,
and she’ll be on it for a long time,
plus her little boy could use it
when winter comes.
Winter will come for her here
in this land of deferred dreams
because she is one of the lucky ones
who didn’t get sent to Artesia,
the 1,000 bed jail for migrants
in Eastern New Mexico.
Instead she came on a school bus
to our cathedral turned shelter.
Dazed and holding tight
to her toddler’s hand,
she decided to believe in us.
We led her into the clothing room
to choose clothes for herself
and her child from the mounds
of donated jeans, t-shirts, jackets,
all sorted by size and gender.
Then she took a shower,
ate her first hot meal in days
and slept.
I imagine her when winter comes to Atlanta,
walking to the corner store for milk and bread.
She’ll be glad that her little boy has the hoodie.
Young men will pass her on their way to the store,
heads covered in black hoodies,
faces lowered to the sidewalk,
hoping not to be noticed.
These boys could be her brothers
back home in Honduras
on their way to a neighbor’s store,
praying to the Virgin to make it home
before the local gang drags them into their net.
I see her let go of her son’s hand
so he can run ahead,
imagine him growing up
in this cold, but hopeful land,
walking with his head up,
free and unafraid.
Malpais Review, Volume 5, Issue No. 2, Fall, 2014.
When a Man Loves a Woman
In memory of Percy Sledge (1940-2015)
They didn’t let him within a mile of their sisters, let him
even think about sliding a leg over a lunch counter stool.
They made sure he never saw the front of a bus,
ate his popcorn in the balcony, reeking of sweat and urine.
But when it was time for a slow dance they couldn’t wait
to hear Percy’s voice. They’d grab their girl by the waist,
pull her close and rock to his music
‘til they thought they’d never love another.
He unlocked that lovin’ feelin’ in them night after night
wherever they danced to his song, be they black, white,
young, old.
Slow dancing to his music, they didn’t think about
who belonged where, or who had the right to what.
They just thought about who they had in their arms
and how to do her no wrong.
Black Lives Have Always Mattered: A Collection of Essays, Poems, and Personal
Narratives, edited by Abiodun Oyewole, p. 174 New York: 2Leaf Press, 2017.