Poetry

brown land

brown land

of my birth

brown skin

of my face

warm breeze

rustling palms

foreign tones

foreign voices

shaken, held

by those who loved

the sound

of my arrival

life lessons

I arrived curious,

ready to explore every aspect

of my surroundings—crawling

climbing, standing, falling/down

walking, running, falling/down

grabbing, hitting, falling/down.

Biting (when necessary)—getting bit

by my mother—in return.

Bossing (when necessary)—getting bossed

by every/one—in return.

I learned . . .

to keep my mouth shut

I learned . . .

to be a good girl, a niña bonita

I learned . . .

to keep my intentions hidden

crushed & dirty mangoes

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d bite into

releasing their sweet and tangy aroma

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands are transported daily

in large wicker baskets, balanced on heads

of dark-skinned women wearing colorful aprons

embroidered along the edges, headed to the market

Roberto Huembes, el Oriental, Municipal Masaya

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d eat with both hands, wet stickiness

dripping along the sides of my mouth, onto my hands and arms

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands are hustled daily

by women walking city streets—sweating, slicing

calling out to those who walk by: niña, señora, gordo, amor

served in clear plastic bags, ripe and sweet

or green and tangy with a pinch of salt

Mangoes that, as a child, I’d eat until the seed was fleshless

leaving strands of pulp stuck between my teeth

Mangoes so plentiful, thousands fall to the ground daily

abandoned and rotting—oranges mixed with yellows

mixed with reds mixed with greens—covered in dirt

swarming with gnats and flies

crushed and dirty mangoes

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

Es-teh-lee

the calling out of my name in Spanish, “Es-teh-lee”

reminds me who I am

it’snotthesameinEnglish

inEnglishwhenmynameiscalledifeelseriousinside

likeineedtopayattention

concentrate

lestiamdiscovered

lestpeoplerealizethatiamnotontopofthings

thatiamsloooooowwww

notalertnotreadytoconquer

thatiamdivided

In Spanish, when I hear my name

it’s okay that I daydream

and like to sit for hours in a hammock

staring into the clouds

listening to the trees

feeling the wind on my face

In Spanish, when I hear my name

it’s perfectly natural for me—as it is for any child—to be a poet

to stop and stare at the men who help la viejita mount the bus

to notice how it takes three men to hoist her basket of fruit—

the one she carries on her head, daily—on top of the bus

In Spanish, when I hear my name

I remember that I am seen and cared for

by my aunts, my grandmother, my mother

even when I used to get in trouble

underneath their anger, their rage, their fear

I knew that I was loved

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

tomboy

Tomboy

n. a girl who dresses and acts like a boy, especially in playing

physical games that boys usually play

1

when I was ten, I ached

for a BMX or a Mongoose

an extension of myself, part of my identity

a bike to reflect my desire to be tough, like the boys

I played tackle football after school at my babysitter’s

my punch, thrown in the face when called for

stung like a boy’s

my father’s hand-me-down gift

of a light blue Huffy with a banana seat

the one I tried to make better with

black spray paint, made worse

my fear of getting left behind paled in comparison

to my embarrassment of riding

an ugly, sissy bike

2

I was a tomboy: curious and unafraid

they saw a niña bonita

I wanted to take karate and play drums

they paid for flute, ballet, voice lessons

I wore plaid shirts and flannel button-downs

jeans torn at the knees, tennies with laces undone

they bought me pretty dresses

I liked my hair long, uncombed, in my face

they took my picture and said, “One day you will see

this photograph, and you’ll be embarrassed.”

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

different

i was brown

they were white

mi mamá spoke broken english

theirs spoke proper english

we lived in an apartment

they lived in a house

we ate chicken and rice

liver with onions and salad

gallo pinto, plátanos, tortillas, y repollo

they ate steak and potatoes

pork chops and fries

hamburgers and hotdogs

my name was stelli

theirs was stacy and amy

beth and mary

shary and kim

i was born in nicaragua

they were born in los estados unidos

i was quiet and polite

they were loud and spoke back

i was one child

they were many

my parents were divorced

theirs were together

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

girlsense

when a girl’s sense of self

derives.from.the.father/she.wonders

“does he approve?”—“am I ok?”

when bonds are broken

between.the.mother.and.the.father/she.wonders

“do they approve?”—“am I ok?”

when the father is coddled by family who repeatedly narrate

that.the.father.was.broken.by.his.father/she.wonders

“is he ok?”—“am I ok?”

when the mother wonders if it was experimentation with LSD

that messed up the father – “because drugs are bad, you know”

– and encourages girl to be close with her father because

mother.lost.her.father.too.soon/shewonders

“is she ok?”—“am I ok?”

when girl has low self-esteem/doesn’t know her true self/

is disconnected from her body/doesn’t follow her intuition/

seeks attention from men— dressing for them, looking to them

for validation.and.eye.contact/shewonders

“does he approve”—“am I ok?

first breath

having been born unto her mother—mis/taking

mother’s conditioning, mother’s inheritance, mother’s identity

as her own—generat/ing mother’s thoughts, mother’s beliefs, mother’s emotions

as her own—becom/ing what others wanted, needed—never seen, never heard

as her own—until the day she be/came aware of her needs, her wants, her thoughts

started to under/stand who she was—sensitive, highly

curious, fiery—she released her mother and took a breath

on her own

pandemic pressure

I like this time alone, at home
to think, reassess, figure out
what truly matters 

Why do I feel pressure, still?
Why do I want to distance myself further, still?
away from the Internet, from people, from family, from friends
from work—the expectation of work—the clock, the Zoom—
the fucking Zoom

Why do I feel pressure, still?
to show up, to apply makeup, to think
about the colors of my shirt, the part of my hair
the backdrop, the lighting, the sound
of my voice, the expression on my face, lifted up
by my smile 

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to rest, sleep, think—or not
my need to make the bed—or not
take out the trash—or not
take a bath—or not
cook, clean, pick up after myself—or not

those who have eyes to see, understand
my need to just lie here, and die—or not
those who know me, understand
I will come back when I am ready, when
no one misses or remembers my name
when I can be free, truly
to do what I want with no one watching, waiting, expecting
me to show up

I will plant seeds of my own, I will be fed
on my own, I will become
what I need, want
all on my own

breasts

small

i don’t understand the fascination

one slightly bigger than the other

because they symbolize being nurtured?

being cared for?

receiving sustenance

from mother?

not tiny

when i see a woman, naked

i see so much more

not voluptuous

i stare at her face

get lost in her eyes

feel the person underneath

fleshy

i imagine what she feels

what she’s seen

what she’s been through

tender

i taste her wisdom

her joys, her sorrows

breasts

that’s what draws me in

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

mind of a 12-year-old 

who will TEACH me

about the men

and what the men want?

who will PROTECT me

from the men

and what the men want?

who will HELP me

with the men

now that my father is gone?

my mother? the busy one working

to survive, fighting to put food

on our table, sacrificing herself,

for me, the one wondering

about the men?

Seven

1

show me yours, I’ll show you mine

bossy as far back as I can remember

playing doctor, never becoming

the real thing

2

a predator, a prank caller

fantasizer of my beautiful mother

my father, just as beautiful—more so, perhaps

who knows how long the man watched—hid, perhaps

in plain sight, pretending to care

about them, about me, about us

"Hi! Have you ever seen your parents naked?"

“um, yes”

“What do they look like when they are naked? Describe them to me.”

“um, okay”

me, going along, trying to give

the man what he asked for

me, going along, trying to give

the man what he wanted

my father, sensing danger

yanked the phone from my hands

“Hello. Who is this?”

(from my zine, SexTell)

Thirteen

1

the girlie magazine I found under the drink

machine at the drugstore. the same place I’d find

loose coins that had fallen and gotten stuck

underneath the machine. a space too tight. too far

back for large hands to reach. or simply not worth

the effort. I stared at images of the women. their

breasts. their legs wide open. I felt things I didn’t

understand. different than what I felt for the boys.

my aunt. the one who was supposed to be

watching me. caught me unaware. grabbed the

magazine from my hands. asked what the hell was

wrong with me. threatened to tell my mom. stared

at me with disdain. as if I were some kind of sicko.

days passed. nauseous with fear. my mother never

mentioned a thing. perhaps she was too tired from

working three jobs. just trying to keep up. just

working to survive.

2

You!

who pulled up next to me in your car

as I rode my bike safely on the sidewalk

You!

who called out

to get me to look

You!

who stuck your dick out

and rubbed it hard

You!

who scared me to death

and made me pull into the driveway of a stranger

You!

who pulled away fast

like a scared little pussy

3

my friend seemed to know everything

one should know at my age

she never judged my innocence

I stared at her lips while she explained things to me

how to smoke Marlboro’s, how to inhale

but not so far down that it burns

we smoked in her room

snacked on Little Debbie’s, Twinkies

food not allowed at my house

we watched the Playboy channel on her tiny TV

sprawled like amoeba on her bed

her parents checking in on us from time to time

4

I instructed you to get naked and lay

on top of me

I don’t remember if I told you

to penetrate—or not

your confusion overcome by eagerness

to please me

we rocked on top of one other

on the master bed

while the boy I babysat slept

in the room next door

Seventeen

harassed by a predator

who called my house

who watched me through my bedroom window

harassed by a predator

who stayed hidden from view

who evaded the cops and my mother

harassed by a predator

who made me fear living

in my own home

(from my zine, SexTell)

Nineteen

my first love, so I thought at the time

the one who worked hard to capture

my attention, my affection, my love

my virginity—convinced 

I was a good girl

from a good family—convinced 

I was the one

(from my zine, SexTell)

Lies

the lies needed to main/tain the

s - e - c - r - e - t

living in a hell of our own doing

y - o - u - r - s - a - n - d - m - i - n - e

unbearable anger nestled deep

deafening silence, un/able/willing to speak

as if a snake wound herself

around my neck, slowly

tightening her grip—poisoning

every relationship

foaming at the mouth

After my parents divorced, my mother transferred me from a public

to a Catholic school. I attended mass, participated in the rituals, was

baptized, and confirmed. I spoke the words I was taught without much

thought or understanding. During mass, I studied people’s faces and

clothing, noticing shapes, colors, and smells. I watched an elegantly dressed

woman escort her elderly father to his seat; how she’d hold onto

his elbows until he released the weight of his body onto the pew with a

thump. I’d notice couples with well-dressed children, and wonder why

some kids got to sit in a special room with books and toys. My mother,

who had broken sacraments and not been to confession, would whisper

as she nudged me into the line for communion, “I’m a Catholic in my

own way.” Thank goodness she taught me to think independently. I left the

church in my early 20s after the priest began spouting off and foaming at

the mouth about gays, lesbians, and unborn fetuses. It’s

no wonder my father finds comfort in atheism.

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

separ/ation

cosmic plates shift, move

further a-part

separated by time, distance, understanding

of life — love—purpose

gap widens, hole

deepens, water

darkens—matters of choice

and consequence

release

I release all identities

of those who came before me

I release all ideas

inherited from religion

all “shoulds” and judgments 

about what’s “good”

or “bad”

I release. I release. I release.

I am

A multi-dimensional being.

A vast network of cells—interconnected,

Living, breathing as one—contradictory

by nature. Contained in the oneness.

Expressive of the multitude.

Continuously evolving. Creating.

Never the same.

I Am. You are. Here. 

Now. Everywhere. 

Always.

frequent flyer

they handed me wings—a pin to wear with pride

‘cause I was fortun/ate and could ride

on a plane all by my/self—other kids could/n’t or

would/n’t—perhaps ‘cause they were a/fraid or

could/n’t afford air/fare—those days were not like now—

where every.person.flies or could if they wanted to—

planes packed like internment camps—back then,

I rode in the cock/pit—‘cause I was little,

‘cause I was fortune/ate

to have wings

dark underbelly of new orleans

My mother reached enough financial stability to upgrade our

car from a Honda Civic to a Honda Accord four years after her

divorce from my father. We couldn’t afford to keep both cars, but

I was allowed to drive the Civic until it sold. I was proud to have

my own car, even one with a “For Sale” sign pasted on the window.

The got the call after I had changed out of my high school

uniform into a casual outfit. My bedroom faced the busy

street along Asher Court. It had a door with a window that opened

to a balcony on the second floor of our two-bedroom apartment in

New Orleans. Sometimes I’d sit on the balcony and read.

The first thing he said was

“I’m watching you. You’re very sexy.”

He described what I was wearing

the clothes I had just changed into

My body fell limp, I slid onto the floor

my back against the wall

with trembling fingers, I hung up

called my mother

“Stay down! Don’t move!

I’ll call the police!

Don’t answer the phone.”

The phone rang a few more times

I answered once and hung up

when I heard his voice

This was just one of many frightening experiences

When people hear I grew up in Nawlins, they love

sharing their great memories

attending a Mardi Gras parade

listening to jazz at Preservation Hall

walking the streets of the French Quarter

riding street cars

drinking daiquiris

eating Cajun food, shrimp po’ boys, muffalettas

beignets at Café Du Monde

They tell me how they love the food

the spirit of the people, they assume my life 

was like their good times.

They wonder why

I’m suspicious of people

I don’t know

They wonder why

I lock the doors of my car

as soon as I get in

They wonder why

I look for the dark underbelly

of everyone and everything

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

wrestling with angels

1

ugliness on the streets of San Francisco

drug and urine-infested, “fuck you” attitudes

homeless with palms upward and jabbing

throwing coins back in your face: “Dollars only!”

“me first” and entitled, even the little ones

store clerks overcharge at the register, then argue

when you demand proper change

everyone is owed something, and you

are the problem

cold, blustery summer days

chafing my lips and my face

2

people wrestling with angels

seeking the truth about themselves

and each another, willing to try

anything—Buddhism, Hinduism, Shamanism

Spiritualism, Yoga, Wicca—curious

open-minded, accepting of all

genders, sexual orientations, races, religions, ages

medical conditions, psychological states

more than just words, values to live by

intelligent, passionate, driven-to-succeed

creating, innovating, influencing how we all live

(from my zine crushed & dirty mangoes)

words

when I’m un-c  o  m  f  o  r  t  a  b  l  e

when I have to say

something important, I

some            times

l-o-s-e my words

they come out

j   u   m  b  l    ed, MEANINGless

I keep talking, hoping

that something meaningFULL

comes out

eventually

inside every writer

lives a demon
who devours words
stifles your breath
crams fears into your mind
makes you doubt your hearing
brings you black thoughts  

Out of nowhere
makes you wonder
who you thought you were
that you could write
or had anything of worth to say
that you thought you had value
insight
something of interest
to another living, breathing
God-forsaken soul 

You
for crying out loud
of all people
how could you
think
it would be
You