Portia’s Extraction (a poem)

Portia is inside my mind

probing my memories

extracting, sorting them

into data –

looking for knowledge

of the virus

the only thing that can

save us from servitude

(Photo by Umberto on Unsplash)

Nostalgia (a poem)

Nostalgia always comes with a bit of bad memory

back in the day, I remember life being calmer

but who’s to say?

My father stumbled in stadium parking lots drunk back in those days

+ I still had depressions that didn’t seem to go away

So what’s so different ’bout back then + the present day?

(Photo by Ajeet Mestry on Unsplash)

Everyday Saints

I was a mess in college.

Two years before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I was enrolled at a university in New York with somewhat of a life trajectory, a moral compass, and many good qualities.

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New Facts (a prose poem)

History is collective memory, and it’s always subject to correction.

It’s written by winners, whether daughters of despots or democrats. They build bronze statues that inform us of what happened, who’s calling the shots, who owns the space you occupy.

As the city convulses, an ex-mayor’s monument is fractured, beat to the ground. Our historical texts must be rewritten, newspaper editors must be removed, the revolution must be televised and live streamed to your social media feeds, and you must forget what you’ve learned because

there are new facts.

(Photo by The New York Public Library on Unsplash)

Making Memories (a poem)

Heavy boxes stacked in the bedroom,

you’re moving again, amid the pandemic.

We’ll see another part of Philly, add to

the memories we’ve made – even if we’ll

be wearing masks and hunkering down.

We’ll find a new coffee shop, we’ll walk new

streets, taking pictures every so often

that’ll be in a book next year that celebrates

our time together.

(Photo by Josh Hild on Unsplash)