I wrote this poem in November of 2025.
tucked behind twinkling lights is the magic of a child’s eyes
so full of joy and excitement for the holiday season
at 4, nothing bad has happened to taint his view of life
at 4, he dreams of Santa Claus, hot chocolate, and polar express
at 4, he still holds a heart full of wonder and awe of the world
at 4, he’s still innocent
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
my roots are locked in a this land
that calls me an other, a forever foreigner
a land where I’ve never felt welcomed
and yet this is what I call home
this is where I went to school
this is where my children were born and raised
this is the only other place I’ve called home
What was your first ever videogame?
Mario on the screen as my brother plays Nintendo
I reach for the control as Mario dies for the second time
my Primo stops me and says this is not a girl’s game
at 7, I sulk at the unfairness of it
I too want to go on adventures in a pixelated reality
but I know better than to say anything
at 7, I’m old enough to understand
it’s best to stay in my Woman’s Place
3/8/25
I wrote this poem in October of 2022.
in Lima, I never had to tone down my theatrics
everyone was just like me
not filtering what was on their mind
they left no thoughts behind
loud and emotional is seen as normal
passionate is the standard
i never had to reign myself in
I could just be without thinking
without doing any explaining
I wrote this poem in October of 2025.
I sigh at the horizon in front of me as L.A is under siege again
and this time they’ve declared a state of emergency
I want to avoid the news, turn off my phone for a few days,
lock myself away in a cabin with my boyfriend
somewhere in the appalachian mountains
where I can forget the rest of the world
But I can’t, I can’t, I can’t
I wasn’t raised to look away in the face of injustice
or when the safety of my loved ones are compromised
instead I remain hypervigilant
Always on alert of this administration’s next dickhead move
hoping it’s enough to keep my loved ones protected
from chaos and destruction
hoping one day this madness will end
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
I breathe in America I exhale out Peru
I’m distant, cold, and reserved at times
I’m warm, nurturing and dramatic at times
I was born in Peru, land of the Incas
land of the conquistadores
and have the blood of both run through my veins
along with their determination and fortitude
I was raised for most of my life in America
and lost part of my language and culture
and gained an individualistic American mindset
I breathe in America, I exhale out Peru
never had a choice in this bicultural existence
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
I found love and it wasn’t at a bar or an app
I found it on the soil I was born on,
I found it in the embrace of my homeland
I found it in welcome from everyone
I met and reconnected with
I found it in the accent I never had
I found love as the prodigal daughter of my country
I hadn’t seen in 32 years
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
we’re not promised tomorrow, so we must make the best of our todays-
creating community with our friends, reconnecting with our roots
loving our children with a loud fervor
we’re not promised tomorrow, so we must appreciate
everything we have
the legs that take us on walks and runs
the creativity that flows from our minds
the laughter shared with loved ones
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
the plane slowly takes off
and I take flight with it
I leave behind past troubles,past trauma
and go on an adventure
to find healing and the best version of myself
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
gratitude taste like mami’s sopa de pollo
gratitude smells like my lover’s cologne
gratitude feels like a warm hug from my son
gratitude sounds like my sister’s car in my driveway
gratitude looks like me looking at the Goddess in the mirror
I wrote this poem in September of 2022.
I longed and longed and longed to feel whole
until I planted my feet on the soil I was born on
until I breathed the air my parents and ancestors inhaled
until I tasted flavors from almost a lifetime ago
I longed and longed and longed to feel whole
until I returned to my homeland
and it was the piece of the puzzle found
I needed to finally complete me
I wrote this poem in August of 2025.
my oldest son moved out in same week my youngest started high school
people keep asking me how I am
and honestly I don’t know yet
all I know is there a major hole that keeps getting bigger and bigger
and I call it partial empty nest syndrome
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
the rocking chair tells a story about the white working class for the past 60 years
from grandfather to father to sons
from the greatest generation to the boomer generation to the boomer generation
and skipped all the way to the zoomer and alpha generation
(side note: the boomer knocked up a pretty little millennial thing in his late 40’s)
the rocking chair has seen the first man on the moon
to the alpha losing his shit when tik tok went dark for several hours
the rocking chair tells a story of the white working class from
breaking the generation curse of illiteracy to educational achievements
from factory days to caseworker days to bolton hall days
the rocking chair holds the dreams, the hopes, the struggles of 4 generations
of the white working class
I wrote this poem in July of 2022.
Kam Highway would see many changes in our family
three teenagers in one house, our parents were saints
at first we lived in abject poverty
trying to find change in the secondhand couch
for ramen or popcorn chicken or anything
to put food in our tummies
this apartment saw the awkwardness of my adolescence
saw my brother almost fall into the wrong crowd
saw my sister fall in and out of love
until she finally landed her first husband next door
and we had a pizzeria next door and also the interesting neighbors
like the marine next door who beat his unfaithful wife
or Tipper the stripper who was in a toxic relationship with the landlord’s son
their song was Kiss and Say Goodbye by the Manhattans
and the fun thanksgivings with all of the neighbors
I wrote this poem in July of 2025.
my childhood was not easy and at times full of chaos
good to inspire my creativity, one where I never needed
much imagination
since real life served up a lot of telenovela energy
from toxic family dynamics to immigrant trauma
to the ghetto melrose place in hawaii
my childhood felt like a constant barrage of episodes
where the adults couldn’t keep it together
