Satellite

A satellite in New York City

I call out, can anyone hear me?

Will someone listen to the anger seeping

In my skin, the burning, the bleeding

Bubbles fester, my veins are seething

Flames flash floods fire, someone cradle me softly

Slashes carved into my cheeks

Like the soil beneath my feet

Bottomed and Brown, to be excavated

Uprooted, stripped, raped and naked

One step removed, it’s easy to say

That commas delay and memories fade

But in roast and jest, I’m sensitive to spice

My scars still remind me how commas can splice

Lonely driftwood, the borders have crossed me

In untethered limbo, a shadowy destiny

Traps and terror maps built into my psyche

Haunted and drifting in unfaithful irony

Brown and queer, as I am, do you see?

Among orbiting satellites, a glorious symphony

Golden legacies, colonial chemistries

Still radio silence, can anyone hear me?

Uncharted Waters

The last two weeks of February have felt like swimming in uncharted waters. From seeing the community outcry pour into Antioch City Council calls and social media since the news of Angelo Quinto’s death surfaced on February 18, 2021, I feel overwhelmed and heartbroken. Yet, I am perplexed by my own grief for a Filipino man I never knew.

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