Friday, November 15, 2019

Behind Her Self-Crafted Collection of Masks…

“Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance.” – Brené Brown


Through a mask

she speaks to all
of authenticity.

And I wonder,
what does her tongue know
of mirrors?

Can a muffled ear feel
truth that lies
outside its own skull?

“Do you know? Can you feel?”

No response parted her lips, but
her rage was sweet
behind her self-
crafted collection of masks…

honest and violent.




the wee notes

- this is my frankensteining of two poems (a cherita and a stitched blackout) I shared on Instagram. You can see the originals (which were posted about 3 months apart) here and here. The cherita was my response to an earlier prompt.

- my muse and I have been organizing words (and procrastinating), so it’s likely that the rest of 2019 will bring more frankensteined pieces. And if we are very lucky the organizing (and editing and rewriting) will turn into a book for 2020. 🤞🏽

- for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #4, Rommy’s first hosting (Welcome home, my “tea-adoring, music-appreciating, witchy-flavored, nerd extraordinaire” friend!).

Saturday, November 9, 2019

What I Know Now: Letter to My Pre-Breast Cancer Diagnosed Self

Dear Two-Breasted Magaly,
June is as hot as jalapeños in a Sahara mood, and you’ve just received a breast cancer diagnosis. You aren’t scared. You aren’t crying. You are no stranger to serious illness. Still, I must warn you that this flesh-eating beast is going to be different from any other disease-demon you’ve had to kick in the teeth before.
No, I am not talking about the riot of side effects breast cancer treatment will brew (what you’ve read on the topic is brutally accurate: it is going to hurt, it is going to alter your flesh and bones, it’s going to seriously suck for a while). This disease will change your feelings towards certain social concepts (i.e. labels such as “breast cancer warrior”, wearing the pink ribbon).

Right now, you understand that calling oneself breast cancer warrior and wearing a pink ribbon are creative ways to fight against something too ugly to face fully uncloaked. You might be partially correct. But Im writing this letter—13 months after your breast died so that I could live—to share with you what I know now: I claim the label and wear the ribbon because awareness is a caring weapon most warriors are grateful to show and tell.

Unconditional Love (and 13 fistfuls of my liveliest cackles),
Magaly


So, there is a chance that I was not all that thrilled about going to the hospital.

 And it rained on me.

 But then, the sun came out to shine on autumn leaves (and me).


the wee notes…

- the title (and part of the post) was inspired by my reading of What I know Now: Letters to My Younger Self, edited by Ellyn Spragins

- for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #3

Saturday, November 2, 2019

Spark

“No.”

Her word was a minuscule spark in a vast ocean of shouting men. None but the farmer and the seamstress, sitting to her right and to her left, noticed that a sound had crossed her lips. The men occupying the dais seemed beyond reach.

“If we cut him, he will lose too much blood to stay conscious,” the head of The Council said. “He burned our barn. We should burn him until he reveals where the rest of his horde is hiding.”

She raised a hand. The farmer and the seamstress did the same. The council failed to see them.

“Burning is as inefficient as cutting,” the Security Chief said. “He might get an infection before we get what we need out of him. Partial drowning will break—”

“No.”

Slowly, the council began to quiet… until the room was completely silent. Not because the men had heard her, but because she had left the back of the room, walked past the landowners, past the merchants, past the families of the councilmen, and was now standing next to the metal folding chair that held the gagged prisoner. The seamstress and the farmer had followed her to the front. Others had followed them, too.

“This is Council business, my dear woman.” The head of The Council smiled. “I’m sure—”

Whatever he was sure of was consumed by a united, “No!” that got louder and louder as more of the people continued to chant their outrage.

The man on the folding chair would pay for the arson. But there would be no torture. Her people were better than that, even if a handful of old men had made them forget for a time.   


for Poets United Pantry of Poetry and Prose #2