Miguel in Reads in Los Angeles

At Lambda Literary Foundation's 2012 Writers Retreat for Emerging LGBT Voices, 45 fellows in Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry, and Young Adult Fiction each gave brief readings of their work.

This is mine.

this photo of you | Mother's Day

Strange how in this digital existence

when everyone uploads, tags, and shares

photos instantaneously,

I have so few pictures of you.

The scanned photos I do have

show you as a young girl

in grey tones that hint

at the depth of your spirit

and playfulness.

Other photos show an older you

more like the mom I remember

when the responsibility of being

a wife and mother

settled into your soul.

Yet this photo has always intrigued me.

Despite the vibrant colors and vibrant times,

the photo fails to match yours.

You’re wearing a genuine smile of confidence

that I rarely saw except those times

when you were your own woman.

There was the time when you worked

at the community center

and dad worked out of town,

you’d take my sisters and me to dinner

on Fridays when you got paid.

Sitting in that small family diner,

converted from an old Dairy Queen,

eating hamburgers and fries

was the best part of the week

At the time I savored our weekly detour

simply because we ate out and ordered cokes.

Now I understand that our excitement

came from your new found sense of self.

For us kids, that was the real treat.

As much as I love you for being my mom,

I wish I had known more about you

at this time in your life,

and I wish that you had, too.

vernal | National Poetry Month

his body knows it’s too hot for 

the dense kinks of his Puerto Rican hair

that comes from his mother’s side.

his body knows it’s too hot for

the curly twists of his Mexicano locks

that comes from his father’s side.

his indigenous spirit knows

it’s time for cleansing,

time to acquit the past,

time for renewal.

with a snap of the shaver,

his hair spills and tumbles

onto his shoulders

and then to the floor

like the feathered mane

of Quetzalcohuātl.

with the repose of Yúcahu

his hands trace his scalp

for the first time since

he last performed

this sacred ritual.

his brown gods

have returned in the

in the tribal rhythms of his heart,

in the serenity of his breath,

in the artistry of his craft.

gently closing his eyes,

he welcomes them back

with an appreciative smile.

©Miguel M. Morales

patterns | National Poetry Month

Usually she’d eye my sister,

turning her slowly,

estimating measurements,

to create a pattern in her mind.

Ordinarily mom cut fabric freehanded

sometimes from a pattern of newspaper.

I’d laugh at seeing one of my sisters

pinned with the Sunday funnies.

If needed, mom examined an old dress

following the cut, contemplating the facing.

But when faced with unseemly seams,

she’d load us into the car and head to TG&Y.

In the stale, air-conditioned sewing department

she’d sit under humming florescent lights

on one of the metal stools with cushions

crafted by the store’s sewing class.

Rows of wooden tables displayed

Butterick, Simplicity, and McCall’s catalogues.

There in that retail library, she’d study

new techniques and memorize patterns.

With new buttons and zippers and threads,

she’d attentively work into the evening

feeding the sewing machine fabric

guiding and twisting with a steady hand.

In addition to constructing

shorts and pants,

fashioning shirts and skirts,

designing tops and blouses,

(I remember a little red leisure suit – it was the 70s),

there were the gowns:

      homecoming,

            party

     wedding,

christening.

Each stitch,

      a prayer,

delicate

and

      enduring.

wake your brown ass up | National Poetry Month

Just because your abuelitos came here

and (eventually) became legal

and had nice brown legal babies

that became your mamá and papá,

doesn’t mean your brown ass

doesn’t have a stake in immigration reform.

Even though you were born in this country,

you’re still an illegal.

Even though you espeak without an accent,

you’re still a wetback.

Even though you have white manteca legs,

you’re still a spic.

Don’t get me wrong, cariño,

go to work and do your best,

earn those raises and bonuses,

because living well is the best revenge.

But, mijo, don’t you dare ignore

your coworker’s comments

about the women

who serve you food,

who clean the restrooms,

who empty your wastebaskets,

the women who look like your tias,

or else you’ll suffer a fate worse

than that of la llorona.

It is not I who place this curse upon you, mi amor.

but rather the curanderas from your clan

whose whispers you dismiss

when they come to you at night.

No, you can’t sit this one out, pendejo

Educate!

Facilitate!

Communicate!

Hermanito, I’m not saying this to be mean,

I’m saying this to

wake

your

Brown

ASS

UP!