Ancestral Poem


I My ancestors are nearer than albums of pictures I tread on heels thrust into broken-down slippers II My mother’s womb impulsed harvests perpetually. She deeply breathed country air when she laboured me. III The pattern woven by my father’s hands lulled me to sleep . . .

Moving On

At 16, living with regrets is hard. All these things I wish I had never done, never said, but they happened. I could either beat myself up about these things or choose to simply learn from them . . .

Sprung Encounters


I. Exhabition We sat on the floating tilt o’whirl at the parking lot carnival at night. The neon lights slowly faded and we sat tight underneath the pressure of the—safety belt Waiting for the machinists and operators to abandon their stations To be alone Without the noise and clutter of the world The darkness seemed surreal with the vivid memories of starbursts spread out—every three inches Watching us with serene potential They mock our impotence Watching what amusemeant To one in the past When the world was as simple as The floating tilt o’whirl at the parking lot carnival at night . . .

(Un)Spoken Territory

The rhythm of thieves and killers plays in my mouth every day, blasting colonized letters up my throat and Piecing my words into grave reminders— breathing my mother would invite me to doom. I would never speak for myself again . . .