remember me

Amá always said she saw spirits.
they were everywhere–even en el rancho,
in between the cacti and rivers that coiled
around mi abuelo’s bright orange home. even in
los estados unidos, en el este de los ángeles
as light and fleeting as memory. los espíritus
are everywhere, the past creeping up like
ivy on a barbed wire fence, begging for
immortality.

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astral projection

a soft haze wraps the body,
enrapturing its wholeness without the
haunting of an elusive psyche–a collection
of auratic stardust weaving through
the constellations of our reality, devising one of the many
astral realms we are a part of. the swirling chaos of it all,
of the pandemonium risen from the unveiling of the universe,
breaks the linearity of time and our bodies as its measurement.

our muddled selves

conducting her nightly ritual, she searched the full length mirror in her bedroom for tranquility. as expected, she saw the disarrayed bed behind her and her absence in the reflection. she had suspected for sometime now that she was perhaps one of those ghosts who didn’t know that they were one, which would explain why her reflection never appeared in the mirror. she would understand her her lack of memory, and the specific memories that haunted her in this afterlife would bewilder her: a last look of herself on her wedding day to an unknown partner, a moment in elementary school when she pooped in her dress during a test, and her little brother’s smile.

she walked up to the mirror, and with the wind of frustration she punched it. shards of glass jumbled on the floor and slit her hands and feet, thrilling them with the high of stings. feeling content with evidence of consciousness, because she believed that ghosts couldn’t feel, her figure began to emerge from a lost realm. but when she looked down at the rose-colored shards and didn’t see her face, only the white ceiling above her, she crushed the pieces and bloodied her feet even more.

unknowingly, her body began to fade away again, surrendering to a reality she fought her best to control.

underwater dreaming

she floats just beneath the ocean’s waves
her brown hair spread like a scallop seashell.
her gaze, fixed on the profile of a white sun
that disturbed the surrounding blue-green waters
with flecks of white light, surrendered
to a warmth that blanketed her face.
unaware of what lies above,
she lifts her hand and breaks the ocean
feels the sun’s kiss–an eruption of heat
that envelops her hand.

the mermaid said
she discovered peace.

naomi under the harvest moon

A small blackbird soared between the bare tree branches and landed on my left shoulder. The blackbird, Annikah, cawed and as it ruffled its feathers, its coat shifted into a pearlescent white. She’s great at camouflage–which is why I bought her. All students of witchcraft need a pet.
I had sent her off in search of the heart of amethyst. The heart of amethyst, a heart-shaped pastel purple stone that evokes peace, is the last ingredient I need to conjure my protection spell. I had been hiding for three months now in rural Grinnell. If they find me, they will do their best to change me. They will do their best to strip me from my magic.
I transport Annikah and I to a Louisiana home with tall, French windows–my mother’s old home. I walk along the porch and recalled my mother whistling to the sound of my neighbor’s pop music on her rocking chair. This rocking chair should suffice for the spell.
I sit on her rocking chair and sprinkled red sea salt around it while whispering the names of my enemies to the harvest moon, in hopes that she’ll hear me. They say that she listens to only those deserving of light in darkness.
From the rocking chair, I hear a loud thump on the roof. Maintain concentration, I tell myself. This is what you’ve been studying for.
On the wall adjacent to where I’m seated, the shadows change and I heard my heartbeat accelerate faster than the pitter-patter of rain. They’ve found me, they’ve found me.
“I know witches who’ve tried to do that protection spell. Lucky for me, it never works.” said the familiar voice.
I stand from the rocking chair and face my uninvited visitor, Donald Gines–my father. His silver-rimmed glasses reflected the moonlight, obscuring his eyes from my view. Did his deep skin always have so many folds? While rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands clasped behind his back, he examined the tattoo that adorned my collarbone. On my brown skin, the copper-ink outline of three roses glistened in the moonlight that shone through the windows. My father clucked his tongue. “That’s new. I don’t think your mother would’ve approved,” he remarked as he glanced at the rocking chair.
I crossed my arms. “You don’t know my mother.”
“Remember,” he said, as he walked to the window. “I knew her longer than you did.” He paused, and looked at the bare branches of the evergreen tree outside. As I watched him, I sprinkled red sea salt between us.
I rolled my eyes. “People don’t stay the same,” I said. “They change.”
“Then I guess you’re the exception,” he shot back. Gines clasped his hands together, and sighed. A silver ring with a sapphire stone softly squeezes his thumb. “Naomi, let’s make a deal. Come with me now, peacefully, and I’ll make sure that the Guardians don’t hurt you.”
I laughed.
“If you refuse this, they will come for you.”
“If you only came to warn me,” I began, “you’re wasting your time. I will not let you or the Guardians rid me of my powers because they are all I have left of my mother. You can tell them that I’m not afraid to face them.”
My father furrowed his eyebrows and scratched his graying mustache. His mustache, reminded me of an unkempt broom–frayed and stiff.
“I rather die on my feet than live on my knees*,” I said as I took a few steps back. I raised my left arm and clucked my tongue, and Annikah glided into the room. She landed on mother’s rocking chair.
“You’ve always been a warrior.” He rolled up the sleeves of his navy blazer as he whispered, “At least give me one last hug.”
I stared at him. He looked so different compared to what I remember. The image of his tailored navy suit and graying hairs stunned me all of a sudden–I hadn’t seen him in years. He didn’t look back at me. Instead, he examined his bronze cufflinks. I wonder if the Guardians gifted those to him.
I took a deep breath. “Okay.”
He shifted his gaze to me and smiled, raising his arms out to embrace me. As I wrapped my arms around him, I revelled in his warmth that juxtaposed the cool air of the house. I smelled his aftershave, a classic old spice, and a memory of the three of us engrossed me. He, my mother and I locked in an embrace one night on the couch. We were watching George Lopez and laughing together, eating Doritos. I remember father saying that he was funnier than George.
“I’m sorry,” my father whispered.
I felt a warm pulse on the area where he injected the needle. A thick liquid oozed through my veins, and as it overfilled the chambers in my heart, a rush of heat washed over me. I collapsed, and everything went white.

**This is what I wrote for the writing exercise, “Silvery flakes drifted down, glittering in the bright light of the harvest moon. The blackbird swooped down…”**

*quote by emiliano zapata.

the snow queen

i thought i could escape her winter breath
with thick insulated jackets, frequent tea-times,
and two socks on each foot–oh, and warm boots don’t always help.
she slicks the paths with her tongue,
draws constellations of snowflakes with her fingers
and whips her long, white hair in our faces. most of the time,
i despise her unexpected visits, the
clarity of her deep-blue skies, the silence
after her storm. she’s like that friend
i like to see is doing well in pictures
but who i can’t spend so much time with. like that person
you crush on from afar—
but that’s where they belong.
afar.