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    Spring backward. #photoaday #flowerstagram #firstdayofspring #spring #lastofwinter ❄️❤️ So yesterday, I ran a poetry workshop at a middle school and hearing the words from these youth, I feel a lot better about the world. One boy wrote a poem & was very shy about reading it. I offered to read it for him. To my surprise, he wrote about people wanting freedom and not being “illegal.” I hope he finds the courage some day to read the poem because these days, hate voices itself louder than love. Our kids deserve better role models. I didn’t grow up thinking about my immigration status, but I think many children have to now. 💔I’m at a very low point in my hope bank. I’m taking notes on how to say goodbye to a country. I think one way is love and one way is poetry.
#loveislouder #happyworldpoetryday This Sunday I made it to church at a Unitarian Universalist congregation. I arrived as a panelist for an immigration and human rights discussion. My audience was majority White. I started with a poem and then my college journey narrative. It is a heavy feeling to be a person who potentially faces deportation or undocumented status and to stand in front of an audience that though sympathetic, cannot imagine what your world is like. They listened to me and the other panelists very actively. One of the panelists, Klara Bilgin, showed us this poster-size cover of Time magazine’s March issue with her own addition “Why America?” At the end I was surprised that most people had comments rather than questions. When we say immigration is a controversial issue or a “hot topic,” it’s true. I got to see it today by people commenting on their experience traveling abroad without borders or their observations of how much labor is expected of undocumented immigrants. Many of them were proposing solutions. I wish Congress were as productive as these people were in their 15 or so minutes to comment and ask questions. #rageatCongress #votesmart #speakup Little sister poem. Be woke.❤️ #ajamonet #poem
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thoughts on winter rain

2013-12-06 15.40.02

through the window, I look at the rain falling on naked trees. In the background, the sky mourns… It reminds me of the inside creases of our paper hearts. We are moving in time, even when the rain has fused our morning and afternoon

silenced our tongues,
focused our lens, zoomed into
water drops resting like sleeping lips
or fingertips over soft skin
or glossy, wide-open eyes.
their soft romance,
born overnight, existing indefinitely
this is a kind of acceptable noisy…
I don’t know how to measure holy.
I don’t know how to articulate holy.
So instead I point and say, “Look, how pretty,
If you were a child you’d be seeing
the drops sparkle…”
and then stepping outside
I think:
“this is a child’s glitter”

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