Living life carefree
Going here, there, and everywhere
You’re in charge
Going and coming as you please
Cancer enters
No invitation
Takes a seat
Front and center
An uninvited guest
Chemo the bouncer
Kicks Cancer to the curb
All seems well
For a while
Cancer returns
Wearing a different costume
We’ve been keeping watch
Another round for Chemo the bouncer
It was a tough fight
It was a knockout
Victory
Living life Cancer Free
I know the words
on the tip of my tongue
ring in my ears
an earworm with a megaphone
“I can do so much better than this!”
“Imagine all that I could be…”
“…if I just tried…”
still I sleep in
and skip alarms
frozen in my comfort zone
I roll right over
I am not in my grave yet.
Decorate my shelves with spines of stories,
hazard strewn in idle categories,
pages fresh; spared from fingerprint oils.
Their knowledge a test were I dare toil.
Then on my walls strange trinkets beside masks
and motley canvas wear paintings and wax
for reasoning’s shaped in objects and cracks.
Art must live if I’m ever to relax.
Organized junk march into allignment
bespoke and cover with keen refinement,
yet now and then my budget uncoils.
Hunger smacks, juicy scraps on tin foil.
Takes more than allegories to fix that.
-after Ariana Alvarado
Like a convert unlearns a mantra.
All things considered I should feel
blessed, at least
that’s her take on it.
I wish I could
have childlike faith,
believe in the promises.
I have already prayed for salvation,
my knees already unused
to staying in this position.
I practice unlearning her body
because I get no answer.
The dog had a scar.
It ran the full length of his snout
from his left eye to his nose.
It was bulging. Keloid. Grotesque.
What happened to your dog? I asked.
My neighbor wore an Easter egg purple shirt.
He smiled and said,
We’ve been to the dog fights.
The bull pen.
The mattresses.
He told me about bared teeth
and snapping jaws
and claws cracked on cement,
trying for purchase,
pulling against restraint,
then unleashed the pure primal pleasure of the fight.
It’s been a hard year.
He said.
He showed me the pick line in his chest,
the bare spots where his hair had fallen out,
his cracked fingernails and teeth.
He stared me down,
not ashamed for his scars.
My thoughts will die down
In the nubby blue upholstered
post office chairs, I hold
the envelope full of everything
I think we need.
Two women in bright print dresses,
hair wrapped in colorful cloth,
finish their appointment,
gather their things,
& one hoists a large, heavy box
onto her head, sees our awe,
smiles, says, African women… &
glides out to the parking lot
balancing it with no hands,
in her kitten heels.
The passport clerk calls us next.
Officious words come at us like buckshot,
terms that seem respectful at first
but truthfully are intended to scold. Me.
I do not have what we need.
I retreat into my brain stem
catching phrases from a distance:
unacceptable proof… certified copies…
I have been doing this 17 years…
but you can explain it to the state department, Ma’am.
Could someone with a valid passport could come
sign an affidavit to vouch for your citizenship
since your evidence is unsatisfactory?
I go blank. I must have said something
to make her mad? I search my daughter’s
embarrassed eyes.
Do you have a trip planned?
No, I just want to make sure I can vote
in the next election since my birth name
and current name don’t match,
I’m from everywhere,
my daughter’s an adult now…
Her eyes say there is
nothing for you here today.
We get in the car, frustrated, deflated,
saying we can try again in a few months,
both of us knowing I can miss a detail
or forget a step in a process at times,
imagining how it would feel
if our safety depended on
having the right things
in the envelope, & we weren’t fluent.
So vast—
So moving.
The wonder is endless.
Souls I long to meet.
Stories I don’t want to ignore.
Opportunities I’m tired of missing.
This world is so full.
The sunlight seeps
through open blinds,
and I ache to run toward it
So fearless, so bold, so—
not me.
I stand in my corner,
in quiet admiration.
Those who leap without looking,
who don’t shrink their voice
to fit the comfort of silence.
They dive into conversations.
A spark isn’t good enough—
They crave a wildfire.
I—on the other hand—
excuse myself at the slightest
dose of tension.
It’s frustrating—
this constant tug-of-war
between desire and hesitation.
Thoughts flood my mind.
In my sobriety,
words refuse to spill.
How can I live out life’s full invitation
while keeping the envelope sealed?
I loathe my still spirit.
How I hesitate,
calculate,
question.
This storm inside me passes
before the first lightning strike.
Yet—
Even in the silence
Something steady inside me
starts to shine
The spark is still relevant.
Every step has a purpose.
Some flames burn slow
and stay warm through the night.
I connect best
not in crowds or chaos,
only in the gaps that ask to be filled.
Where one heart sees another.
Where conversation isn’t shouted,
but shared.
Maybe, my silence makes room
for someone else to speak.
Perhaps my soft, steady presence
is often what people remember most.
I may never be the life of the party,
yet I’m a quiet place
where a soul can rest.
A safe place where gossip
doesn’t exist,
and trust is a way of life.
That’s who I was made to be.
Not lesser—different.
Not broken—built for more.
On a private and personal level.
Day by day, I’m crawling
a little further out of my shell
Respecting my own rhythm.
Filling my own space.
The world is so full—
and I get to be a part of it.
Quietly shining my light.
From one spark to the next.
Barbies line the bookcase in my mothers office. Wedding Barbie, Hawaii Barbie, Christmas Barbies 1987-99. All in mint condition in their original boxes.
For my fifth birthday, I got mom’s Barbie collection- her childhood play collection, not the collector collection. All my own to play with including Barbie’s Dream House and her perfectly pink car.
My brother would sneak into my room to strip each Barbie, leaving them strewn about the floor, their clothing disregarded nearby. After the cat would get to her, i’d collect Barbie’s arms, legs, and chunks of her head, wipe the cat saliva from her hair and line them up across my bookshelf. Something about throwing away the small bits of her seemed unfeeling.
On my 7th birthday mom tracked down Barbie’s rock band; just like the one she used to play with before someone mindlessly tossed it out. Barbie pounded on the drum set to emulate mom sat down at her own.
My Barbie collection grew tenfold by age eleven. A group of girls came to my house and quickly I ushered them up to my room, ready to impress with my now fully furnished Barbie Dream House. To my dismay, one girl asked
“Do you still play with barbies?”
They all giggled with one another.
I scrambled for an explanation, settled on
“Oh, i was just packing them up.”
Now Barbies are piled up on top of one another, shoved into plastic bins, left to rot in the attic.
In the toy isle, my mom stands- one hand holding a phone up to her ear, the oncologist on the other end- one hand caressing each boxed Barbie lining the shelf.
I imagine she is wondering where her Barbies have gone.
