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| Ideas for short stories |
First Draft of My Wedding Vows
The first draft of my wedding vows.Brown boy, the first time I saw you,
I thought you were short.
I remember seeing you walkthrough
two giant glass doors,
your Magic Mike arms
busting out of your tank top,
two stars tattooed on either shoulder,
a third one twinkling in your smile.
I always hoped I'd discover
my own constellation one day.
Never knew one person
could suddenly become the entire sky,
how all of the fuck boys are eclipsed
by a breakfast-in-the-morning
kind of love,
by kisses on the forehead
and midnight true crime marathons
or the way you hold me in your sleep,
like letting go is not an option.
Like so much has been taken
from you already, brown boy,
dreamer.
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| Ideas for short stories |
When was the last time
you slept peacefully enough to dream?I remember the morning
you came home a ghost,
where a ticket for a minor offense
and a courtroom became the set
of your very own American horror story,
and DACA was the middle name
you didn't want me to know about.
On September 15th, 2017,
Deferred Action for Childhood
Arrivals were repealed,
and the dream became a nightmare,
and the chase became a hunt.
From now on, I would only wake up
to the sound of the modern-day Migra
knocking at the door,
wake up wondering how
I would cry if they took you away,
if my cries would sound the same
as your sister's or your mother's.
I do not believe in marriage,
do not believe in giving
my heart to a government
that only wants to cut it in half
and call me a commodity.
But today, I am merely a woman
who loves you more
then all of the rainbows,
merely a universe that could not exist
if its entire sky disappeared.
Call me protector, call me warrior,
call me your wife.
I vow to be the answer to every last one
of their uncomfortable questions.
I vow to shove this nation's patrimony law
back up its racist ass.
You didn't want us here.
Well, that's too bad
because we're here to stay.
And Trump being invited to
our brown as fuck fiesta of the century.
When he said,
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| Ideas for short stories |
"Taco trucks on every corner,"
he was talking about our wedding day,talking about all
of the Bachata and two-step,
the way we hold each other
too close when we dance,
like only we know how our people
paint death on their faces
to prove they are unafraid
to look it in the eye.
They cry gritos in the wind
for the familia lost to the border,
to ICE, to the monsters with guns
and privilege and serious white faces.
But tonight, we celebrate
because they have never
gotten rid of us before
and [inaudible]
they sure as hell won't start now.
I vow to hold you close
through the heavy knocks at the door.
I vow to keep singing.
I vow to keep fighting
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
te amaré para Siempre.
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