la cucaracha

“sometimes the beauty of my people is so thick and intricate. i spend days trying to undo my eyes so i can sleep.” ― Nayyirah Waheed

Month: March, 2014

I often cry
because I miss Him.
I just really miss Him.



Sometimes I imagine that we were there when Father God began to pull the strings of the world together, and he put our favorite colors into the fabric of our universe.
He held our hands.
And we made him laugh.
And it was that laugh that made the world ice over for ages
so we could ice skate,
When we shivered, he called out the fire

From the heat between our hands,
the lava flowed and covered the surfaces.
We walked together: he taught us about shade.
Told us to breathe in and out
and trees grew around us.
Where he told us stories of how gloriously mangoes tasted.

And even then,
we sort of knew how they tasted
because we trusted him, we could taste
on the tips of our tongues.

Sister,      brother…           We forgot.

We forgot how to breathe. And we saw death in our dreams.
We slept next to demons. Loneliness.
Our necks forgot what it was like to move with the sun.

[I fed death with the sides of my body
I kept it napping in my heart by sacrificing hunger to it
I let it scratch the walls of my thoughts,
I bowed down to it every time my knees hit the bathroom floor, and I
sacrificed the meal my mother had made as an offering]
because we believed it wouldn’t inhale our memory.

In the shade, we said
I think we whispered it, actually. We saw his chest. And it was open.
The loneliness in our ears dissipating into the vacuum of his heart.

He never told us that he missed us.
He spoke in a tense nobody knows how to speak in. Eternal.
We did tell him that we missed him-

I think it tickles his belly that our humanity is adamant in believing that his presence comes when our hearts are prepared.
He sits in the shade,
and he tells us he loves our humanity. As he continues to pray over us in the eternal tense
And he loves us in the eternal tense,

So he hands us a peeled mango,
and we eat together

in the shade.



Poems, Prayers, and Promises

Today was a celebration because we talked about the weather and forgot to mention how cold it’s been. And because we were asked if we were crazy for walking barefoot in the snowy sand and jumping into the puddles made by the ocean. Our feet remembered of the days they had been used to walking around hot pavements on summer days when we walked across the parking lot today: the burning from the cold cement an adumbration to the return of elongated days and sunshine on our knees.

When you wait for spring, you begin your prayers by crying, because it was a painful winter this year. But those memories melt into your friend’s laughter because- remember that time you drank soda for the first time in half a decade and we couldn’t stop burping and choking on each other’s shrieking and cackling? 3 am and we picnicked in the hall with McDonald’s because we decided calories and time didn’t scare us anymore. And that time we watched Brokeback Mountain without our parents’ permission- no, the time we played spoons to try and make friends and just got overwhelmed? We learned to come home when we looked into each other’s eyes, celebrate the Sabbath by holding hands and [too often] eating chocolate croissants late at night. And when you wait for spring, your prayers end in thanksgiving because the heart is poor, the mind is desperate, and your friend’s smile reminds you of sunshine. So you drive with one foot on the pedal and the other out of the window, eyes closed: worship. 

It’s 30 degrees outside, friends. So we go get ice cream, and we are allowed three of our eleven expired coupons. And I remember learning about that one monk [though I’ve forgotten his name] that went into the desert to pick up his cross and follow Jesus. But in his solitude, his hands were too full fighting demons to hold anything else. And he heard Jesus tell him to go back to the community. And as his hands were filled with others’, there was no more room for the demons. 

Today was a celebration, because we were told to leave the desert, and when your hands filled mine there was no more room but for Resurrection.