100 Days of Poetry

one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,

eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, 17, eighteen, nineteen, twenty,

twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty,

thirty-one, thirty-two, thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty,

forty-one, forty-two, forty-three, forty-four, forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fifty,

fifty-one, fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five, fifty-six, fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty,

sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three, sixty-four, sixty-five, sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine,

seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two, seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty,

eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety,

ninety-one, ninety-two

You can have me

This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.


You can have me in the garden, beneath the sculpture view. With the scent of jasmine near and next to the waterfall.

You can have me after the theater, with my emotions on high when I’m raw.

You can have me on the subway, headphones in and oblivious to anything but my playlist: full of romantic sad songs about how love hurts unless it’s you and especially when it’s over.

You can have me on the plane, suspended above the world, alone and completely at ease. No where else to go but here. Wherever my destination is: hoping you’re there.

You can have me in my dreams. Laying me down at the top the stairs, I give in. I give in. I give in.

You can have me in every hallway, every stoop, every sneaky passers-by nook or stairwell. 

You can have me.

You can have me.

You can have me, too.

it will probably surprise no one

It will probably surprise no one that what I’ve been trying to do my entire life is remember who I am

And nothing reminds me more than the kitchen table. The stove, my grandmas hands, my grandpas fish. Ratty placemats and the devotional before prayer. How gathering with people who share my name feels like holy exercises in love and how feeding those people with the recipes of generations before me feels like praying out loud, on purpose, and in their name.

I write poetry and essays, I have Poetry Eyes for life, and I want to feed you.

I want to feed all of you with my heart.

Smoky, understated, simmered, tempered, sugared, candied and browned. My heart is savory, salty and has had the absolute shit beaten out of it. She’s tender. The sear is legendary, my burnt ends – out of this world. And when you pair me fresh basil? Olive oil and drippings from tacos down my forearms? God, she’s translucent. 

She sings when paired with wine, and curdles at the thought of that one rice dish, mom, you know the one. French dressing is something I will not ever own. It drown everything I understood as good when I was six. 

This heart craves beets, not unlike the pounding of each and every beat in the bass drop. We want vibrations, reverberations, iterations and cantations. To feel the earth beneath my feet as we pound all of this to the ground.

This heart that lives inside of me, she knows the difference between raw and well done.


This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.

even this

This post is part of a series called 100 Days of Poetry.


Has anyone ever released you from the jail you put yourself in?

A word, a phrase, someone daring to say the damn thing out loud? Did your breath catch in the back of your throat, or did your stomach hop and your skin percolate?

Did you see clearly for the first time in a long time, did everything come into focus, did you watch yourself exhale?

Has your heart beat this fast in response to truth, ever before?

Did you know that this is what living could feel like?

Did you know you were allowed even this.