Flash Fiction

I wrote this little poem in the beginning of the second semester of my sophomore year. It has nothing to do with black Friday, gratitude, food or family. Instead, it's all about the pervasive lack of significant  emotional development in the males of our species, something I am far from thankful for. I think that Minnesota-passive-agression is rubbing off on me.

Flash Fiction

I tried to make you into a simile
But you’re too transparent, too flawed
With men like you
Every comparison has already been drawn

I could make us an into an allegory
And scrawl down our potential love
Imagine that you’ll say sorry
That you’re someone I can take hold of

You knew that we could have some poetry
We were ceasing to pretend
But you’re  a terrible writer
So before we could start
you wrote the end

I Give Thanks for Literature...Now Pass the Turkey

     The office environment remains relaxed as the best holiday, ever, nears. It's that time again. Snow is on the ground in the Twin Cities, temperatures have dropped to below freezing and people are preparing to gorge themselves on extremely fattening foods and fall asleep wherever they lay their heads. I am missing one day of work to fly back home to New York and I'm ecstatic.  I will probably end up working on a project for the website on Salgado Maranhão's poetry collection, Blood of the Sun, while I'm at home but that's preferable to writing a midterm paper on constructions of race in Othello.
      My parents and I are hosting Thanksgiving dinner for the first time in my memory. Because of my slightly compulsive nature, I assigned us all different tasks months ago. I will be in charge of everything sweet, essentially dessert and cranberry sauce. I have tried out different pumpkin recipes, a vegan pumpkin cheesecake (no one guessed it lacked dairy) and vegan crustless pumpkin pie (a total fiasco), to name two. Thursday will be the moment of truth, can us amateurs pull this whole Thanksgiving thing off?
         Every year since my childhood we went to my aunt's house on Turkey day. She lived only about an hour outside of New York City. It was more than worth it to have her husband's chestnut stuffing and her famous (crusted) pumpkin pie. Last summer she and her family moved to Santa Fe. This was devastating for my parents and I, not just because of the absence of her Thanksgiving feast, of course. However, we have managed to procure her family recipes and hope to replicate them as closely as possible. I've found that Turkey day doesn't feel quite right if you're not eating the same kinds of foods that you have for years. Tradition is paramount.
        I don't usually think about giving thanks for anything other than the outstanding fact that a holiday centered purely around food exists, but this year I'm going to try a little harder. I want to give thanks for something slightly unconventional, but something that is an integral part of my life. I want to give thanks for writing. For the books I have read this year that have changed my life (I'm looking at you, Lolita, probably the best novel I've ever read), for the writing I have been inspired to do and for the hilariously bad manuscripts that have cheered me up when I'm having a rough day.
         Writing is something I can't fathom living without and it's something that in our westernized society we often take for granted. Just stop and think for a moment about what your life would be like if T.V. and movies were the only forms of entertainment, if there was nothing to read or worth reading, for that matter. Copy in magazines and newspapers is shrinking by the second and the most popular books are about teenage vampires. Let's take a moment to appreciate the exceptional literature, journalistic writing and poetry that adds depth, substance and beauty to our lives. And if you must read "Twighlight," at least also devote some time to a Nabokov novel . Alright, now can you pass the mashed potatoes, please?

The Linquist and Vennum Poetry Prize

       Last Thursday, Milkweed announced a new prize. The Linquist and Vennum Poetry Prize is for poet's based out of five states: Minnesota, Iowa, Wisconsin, North Dakota and South Dakota. The winner will receive a hefty sum of ten thousand dollars and publication by Milkweed. The contest will be judged by Peter Campion. He has written two collections of poetry, Other People (2005) and The Lions (2009). He is a winner of the Pushcart Prize, The Larry Levis Reading Prize, The Rome Prize from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and the Guggenheim Fellowship. He is a professor in the M.F.A. program at the University of Minnesota, and lives in Minneapolis.
        The Linquist and Vennum Poetry Prize is an exciting opportunity for poets to gain recognition for their work on a national scale. The submitted collection must be currently unpublished and all other queries at other publications must be withdrawn. Is seems that Milkweed is looking for a fresh regional voice to showcase, and in some sense to represent their taste in poetry to the public. I personally think it's a wonderful idea.
        Anyone interested should feel free to contact me. It must be a book-length manuscript. More requirements and stipulations can be found on the Milkweed website. Don't be shy, fellow college students! I know there are some great young poets out there and that's who we're looking for!

Atlantic Skin

         I wrote this poem in the Macalester library, when I was procrastinating about writing an academic paper (this is ironically how I produce some of my best creative work). It was the second semester of my sophomore year and I was enrolled in a Crafts of Fiction class, of which this poem had nothing to do with.
        I have always been inspired by the poetry of the ocean. Two large bodies of water have played a prominent role in my life, the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea. I grew up in Brooklyn, right on the Atlantic. I went to Coney Island frequently as a child, although New York is not known for it's wonderful beaches. My mother grew up in San Juan, Puerto Rico, along the Caribbean Sea. There was a very dominant beach culture there and she spent her adolescence watching surfers on the beach. I have been visiting my family in San Juan since I was three months old and although I have never been an exceptional swimmer I have always loved taking in the waves. My name also means "of the sea" in latin, and my mother's means "white wave." Perhaps our names were prophetic of our watery futures.


Atlantic Skin

She tattooed a quote about the sea
in the willowy space
Above her pubic bone
She explained it to her lovers
When they undressed her
tracing the letters with their tongues
She judged men based on their attention spans
If they listened they would stay
But if they removed their clothing too hurriedly
They only wanted to splash into her
leaving, once their fingers pruned from the water
She always let them
Hoping that the salt would seep into their pores
That they would always be drawn to
The jagged rocks of her shore
Her smoothed sea glass
But instead they collected pebbles
And shells
They took spotted crabs
Placing them in their heavy pockets
Putting them on mantles
Until no more algae grew
Till fish skeletons
Adorned the surface
“All life came from water”
she would tell them.
“Mother ocean
not Mother Earth”

De Tudo um Pouco

        There's no big news at Milkweed. We had an intern dinner a couple of week ago, which I forgot to mention. There ended up being only four out of the six of us, and non literary subjects were definitely breached. We went to a Japanese restaurant about two blocks away from Open Book. Sushi was had by all and it was a wonderful, if not short-lived, outing. I get along well with the majority of interns in the office. I am the only one still currently in college. Most of them are very recent graduates, with the exception of a twenty-seven year old.
         I managed to live "slush free" for weeks, but then the unsolicited manuscripts came in by the tens. Three of the manuscripts that I requested were also requested by the editor and sent back to me in their complete form, which is infinitely exciting for me.  I just finished proofreading a manuscript that we recently acquired.
       I was given another project for the Milkweed website. I have to create a Q & A on our poetry in translation to go with "Blood of the Sun,"a new book we are publishing by Brazilian writer Salgado Maranhão, translated from Portuguese, so that should be an interesting change of pace. It will also be a good opportunity for me to familiarize myself with literature in translation, which is certainly beneficial to my interest in becoming a translator.

Between Rivers

This is my first creative posting in a couple of weeks. This poem is similar to "Vale la Pena." The assignment was to write an autobiographical poem in my creative nonfiction class (about two years ago), similar to a poem we read in class. I forget exactly which poem it was, but I believe it was by a Native American poet and that she used natural elements to demarcate different points in her life. I tried to do this a bit with rivers.


Between Rivers

“Why did you have me across the river, mami? I want to say I was born and raised in Brooklyn.”
“Just say you’re from New York City, mija”
I didn’t know then that the hospitals were better
In Manhattan

We lived on the brick side of the building
I grew encased by ivy and mami’s freckled arms
Sleeping in the same pink carpeted room
Daddy would visit
I’d run up the block to greet him
As if the moment was too slow
All night they’d steal furtive glances
He gave me a wooden dollhouse so I would always love him

At five my best friend called from her house across the street
We dreamt of Krishna’s skin
In saris that dragged below our feet
Her mother fed me curry and chai
Her Daddy would visit sometimes
He gave her a fake yellow jeep
So she would always love him

“Is this what you wore when you married daddy?”
“Daddy and I were never married, I was someone else’s wife
before we met”
I didn’t know that my mother had a life before me yet

At six I wrote my first poem
And when I showed it to the teacher she hugged me
And my pen never stopped

At 8 daddy wasn’t allowed to come over anymore
But neither of them understood that when they held
My hands and swung me in between them
I flew

At 12 mami was sick
They lopped off one of her breasts
The one’s that had been like pillows, like cradles
She vomited her love into the toilet bowl
Leaving locks of hair stranded on the seat
Daddy didn’t come to take care of me
And I wrote because I was afraid
That I had forgotten what her arms felt like

“Mami, you had a stepdaughter?”
“ I had two, corazon.”
I had always thought I was her only girl

Last week I wrote a story
About a woman
Her hair flowing like algae
Her hips undulating currents
Her torso meandering, flowing through the city
But I didn’t read it to anyone

At thirteen Daddy introduced me to her
There had been others that would stroke his hair quietly
But this one stuck around for longer
She moved in with him
When I told mami she hugged me with wet eyes

“Why did you decide to have me?”
“Mija, I had had three abortions and by 41 I needed some company”
 I had never understood that kind of loneliness

At 18 I found myself in an icy city
Taking refuge in poetry and cinderblock
And stranger’s love
Running to the Mississippi
just so I could cross another river