“Fado for my Daughter” and Other Poems


This world is so dark
even fireflies alit
in their bliss
of endless sky and green
often find it futile
to glow. Every blow
of dirty air
knocks you harder
than the last.

This world is a terror.
Every slaughtered lamb,
crumbling colosseum,
beached whale, and vacant lot
filled with fields of dead
dandelions point to
the demise of the beautiful
dream Gaia once had.
Every bite of a pesticide-covered apple
brings us a bit closer
to the chaos.
The impending
hail of horrendous.
The plague
locust lies.

How can I protect you
from a world when its fangs
are always deep
in my neck—in my carotid.

A psychology major once said
post-partum is
like you’re a paper bag
someone punched
the breath out of.

Or as I say, an eye
scooped of its socket,
told its purpose is not
to see but to keep



The ugliest parts of the human body are beautiful
because of a mother.
Elbows, armpits, the soles of your feet.
Her balm is there
like marble.

Atom in Adam.

In a forest, she will be the one to see the trees.

Someone asked
the other day,
how does One
survive on no sleep
for almost a year?

To which One replies,
I feel like I’ve been sleeping
my whole life, ‘til now.

I once watched a finch fly into a window,
his broken body drop to the ground
like a rock in a river.

That night I prayed to a Blessed Mother
weary of my worries
that its life was in sacrifice to the one

I had growing inside me. Still, I wondered
why there had been no blood.
Why it never made a sound.

The core in “corpse”.

Under the moon, the Night-Blooming Cereus
releases its perfume up, lets its pale petals
fall like a slip, opens its mouth wide
fellates the sky.

A troubling of goldfish
frantically finding
themselves out
of the bowl
is a Monday
night inside
a mother’s mind.

IsweartoGodifyoutouchmybaby! I’llkillyouyouSonofabitchIsweartoGodImeanit!

King Solomon should’ve known all along,
who the real mother was, the one
who could never bear half.


IMG_1732 - Version 3

Self-portrait as elephant on top of a chair frightened by a mouse

Avó used to say

É o fim do mundo, the end of days

to which I’d reply     every day

is someone’s last day

on earth.    I was an elephant

then, a titan teen

unafraid of anything unafraid of me.


Now, atop a chair, I squirm

while a mouse the size of a slipper

squeaks by looking

for any last crumbs.

Everyone knows mice are just baby rats,

and rats carry diseases, possibly

some plague we still haven’t assigned

a modern day color to.


I’m terrified of its oval mouth, its talon teeth.

Imagine it sinking them into my side,

and me collapsing to my doom,

then going into my daughter’s

room to spread      its pestilence,

fuchsia or magenta.

Maybe maroon,

like the sunset ao fim do Mundo.

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