January 2025
Bio Note: I'm a Cuban-American educator and poet living in Alexandria, Virginia. Reading poetry, writing poetry, and sharing my love of poetry with my high school students brings me deep joy. Excavating my family tree and family stories keeps me rooted and grateful. My poems have appeared in numerous online and print journals, and my first full-length collection, Poised for Flight, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2022.
After the Accident
after flash of fall
down stair flight
the blow to bone
and slow
spread of blood
under shin
skin swelling
to almost bursting
and the turn
of days and weeks
to months of press
of blue-black flesh,
thumb tracks left
on needles of nerves
that fire to flame
without warning
I am surprised
by the flaming
of gratitude
and awe
at the near-missedness
of it all
that bone
did not break
and head remained
unscathed
ready
to tilt
chin up
to gaze of sun
I Walk Through the Native Plant Sale at Mount Vernon
in September joining
flower enthusiasts
and gardeners intent
on tending their plots
with plants that grow
naturally, with no history
of human introduction
to our Northern Virginia
ecosystem.
I read the signs:
Blue False Indigo
(Baptisa Australis)
native perennial
full sun to part shade
well-drained soil
beautiful indigo blue
flowers in late spring
and early summer.
Larval host plant
for multiple moths,
skippers, butterflies.
Swamp Milkweed
(Asclepias incarnata)
native perennial
plant in full sun
medium to wet soil
rose pink flowers mid
to late summer. Host plant
for monarch butterflies.
At Mansion House Farm
the gardener was named George,
like the man who owned him.
Likely he nurtured
these same flowers, although
unlike the blossoming blues
and pinks
he was not free
of human introduction
to the Upper Garden
transplanted from land
where heart roots clung
to cleaved earth
now buried deep
among furrowed rows
of feet pointing
toward the river, ready
to spring back home
bones among bones
harvested marrow
seeds scattered
survive
to fertilize
the red-streaked soil
bloom
brilliant vermillion
become
larval host
for butterflies
My Grandmother's Hands
What if I could reach
through time and touch
the hem of your housecoat,
stroke the papery skin
of your hands resting
on your lap after
the worries of the day
are stacked neatly in
the corner of your bedroom
like the cotton sheets
you fold fresh from the laundry
even the fitted ones fitting
precisely into the pile
you smooth each night
with deft, familiar fingers
that reach through time
and touch the hem
of my sleeve unraveling?
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