card tricks
the scent of fried dough lingers
in the breeze just like a prize,
rainbow smiles and ice cream
paint the scene with starry skies
young couples’ faces brighten
playing games both rigged and fair
there’re stolen kisses sweetened
after funhouse mirror scares
A young man holds his partner
linked with her at hand and heel
soul bare she stares into his eyes
up on the Ferris wheel
ladybug freckles on his
cheeks, hair ruffled by the
wind, aphids on the underside
of his candy apple grin
As night falls and the stars come
out, their lips inches apart,
she doesn’t know he’s only
playing card tricks
with her heart
Shoes.
i tell you this tale,
how shoes became known to us,
not what you have heard.
Long ago a king,
court in iron fist, had a
secret obsession
He was an odd man,
who was lonely and quite sad
in search of a queen
So began the search
a reverse Cinderella:
Find the fairest feet
His subjects hiding
Young women were the victims
No one’s feet were safe
His harem much too full,
The king ordered to search the
Neighboring kingdom
The neighboring king
Heard this news, wanted no war
“Protect all the feet.”
So the neighbor king
A kind man of great riches
Sent out this decree
His men got to work
Crafting all shapes and sizes
New thing called “footwear”
The strategy worked
All his kingdom’s feet were spared
Weird king’s troops retreat
People slept in peace
Maidens’ feet were now free.
Shoes worn ever since
my own.
My brother flies, but our
sister and I must learn to.
I am grateful for the
freedom I do have:
they can’t stop the sunset,
i’ll always have my dreams.
they can’t force thoughts
into my head, i’ll
always see the world
through my own lens.
But my family chains me.
the push-and-pull of
our mother’s strong moon and
the burn on my back from
our father’s harsh sun
whip the tides of my soul
back and forth in the nest.
I used to think when I
grew up I’d be free.
That I’d graduate,
spread my wings,
fly out of the nest.
I used to think I could soar.
That was before I realized I had
such featherless wings.
in the end,
i belong
to my parents.
i am not
my own.
working hands.
I once admired
your working hands.
Hands rough and strong,
so streaked with dirt.
Hands that feed, that
fight, that teach.
Hands that prayed,
and they pray still.
Hands that
risk their life to
abandon a homeland,
to cross a border,
hands that left your
home a world away
to make this strange land
mine
Aching hands that,
of sun and sweat, and
prayers and dirt,
built my life
on American soil
Loud hands at work,
at family reunions, church,
at quinceañeras, barbecues.
Loud hands outside,
Silent at home.
Sunburnt
hands that rip
The bitter taste of
fatherhood from your
unwilling tongue.
I've always watched your
Working hands come
home to rest,
No strength for love,
no time for me,
only to eat,
and work,
and sleep.
I pray my soft
delicate hands
Be as strong and tough
as you,
My gentle American hands,
such tender hands, so
unlike yours.
My privileged hands,
they want for nothing.
Such sheltered hands
Uncalloused, young,
untraveled.
I pray that
my American hands
have room to hold
the love you never did,
Love meant for me, my
brother, sister, mother,
or kids.
My hands provide
for not a child unseen.
They work to care, to
mend their hearts,
To wipe the sweat upon
my brow only after I dry
their tears.
My hands
won't work to kiss the
sun, my hands will work
to make a home.
My working hands
will work
To love.