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Will I be seen through blurred eyes i cant see me me is unseen to mee I am what is was will be be be repet itiion on drummmm bed snore sleep TRRAANS WOOMAAAN u gotta explane gotta extrapolate [extraordinary cercumstances] TRRRans man gotta gotta gotta be more more more gentle (poor bby pour bb) sTAMped down n u aint no goddamn person YOU wat u born [assigned] YOU dont undestan YOU an tha cler y i gt tired of bemonin hatehatehate just is sighi ng si ghing s I g h I n g bcause they trying to make hating mre accessible to YOUth I GOT MINE n tht’s ll need bbbbbbbbbbb n they care s mch s they cn cnt cant cannot [will not] 1nceigetthisissuesuddenlyimgood n icantthinkbeyondwhatismyown buttt now thr is no FUCKiNG TiME NO MORE and while they take the world melts theres so many too too too too too too too i will be the one who cuts heads from shoulders because im so tired of letting them stay on and i will be the one who sets buildings aflame filled with those who send siblings to death for nothing and i will i will i will sacrifice my innocent bull bull bruised ass body to be bent in dark torment I want to hold the flag pierced through right bodies. toomuch for the cisbois toomuch for ciswhitebois “is there really reallyreally discrimination hate anymore is there really? I’m not toomuch toomuch for me for me for THiS. in this unfocus suddnly bby i am i am that boi boy Babyboy and this woman she be dreamin she be holdin that spear Impaler Impaler and on pikes I place my prIde We’re goIng to come down this mountaIn and we’re gonna kIll.

We stand. Two pillars. I am taller than you because my arms are over my head. If I dropped them, I would be just a few inches shorter. I have grown, even in the last months, because I asked. We are two feet apart, exactly, unmeasured. It can only be felt, maybe heard. If you listen to your body, you can feel me already. Nearby. Exactly two feet away. My back is towards you. You step closer to me and I can feel it, though you do not touch me and I do not see. You raise your arms in a closed loop, over your head, then slip the loop over my head. Trapped, you think. You do not know what I think. Your arms do not touch me, but hold me. You think this is almost enough. I begin to wiggle. Think of a fish caught and forced into hot air or a dog held for a little too long. Slippery and unusually strong. I start to wriggle wriggle wriggle. Still no contact is made. Instinctively, your arms tighten, drawing me in by the waist. I bend at the hips, into you. The warm is exciting. Exciting, except I have not stopped wiggling. You wish I would, but it’s only gotten worse. My arms are still over my head, and I’m trembling in addition to the writhing. I am now writhing. You cling tighter, thinking about what the fuck you are supposed to do. Maybe this is not it, not want you want, not love. My legs give out in convulsions and you are holding me up; you are holding me. But I have not stopped wriggling. Wiggling. Writhing. You wonder if I am oiled, slippery as a frog, but this is just my skin and I am just moving the way I know how. Shaking, thrashing, squirming. You suspect every joint in me has dislocated and every bone has rubberized. Your arms are hurting my ribs and my back and my everything. You are hurting me now but you will not let go. And my arms are extended out from my head, but this is now below, and I am writhing. Eventually, you drop me. Release me from the embrace. Once my heat becomes too much and it becomes clear I will not stop. I flop to the ground. And you laugh now, despite. Because that is a fish or an eel or a snake, and it most certainly is not anything more. Not me. And I wiggle and wriggle and writhe.

The body. The body is adorned in cloth and metal and rubber and referred to as one’s self. The body is to be destroyed. The body is to be fetishized. The body is an object. The body is vague. We are not our bodies. Arguably, the self is merely a summation of beliefs and traits—qualities contained in the mind. So what is the body to the self? The body is a vessel made of flesh and bone, carrying the self, contained in the mind through the world; then what does this mean of the flesh and bone? What purpose do they serve? And if the flesh and bone do not affect the self, why do they vary? The body is subjective. What is the standard body? By what standard are bodies judged? How does one determine which bodies should be destroyed and which bodies should be preserved? Why does the body have so much power over the mind? Why can the shape of a body ignite lust and the color of a body inspire hate? What significance does the body have that it should arouse such strong response in the mind? And if the body does not reflect the self, why do its consequences vary? The body is a contradiction. The body which carries the self, contained in the mind may perish. It is prey to destruction and easily damaged. But the body mends its own wounds, refabricating flesh and bone as necessary and at its own will. But the body is slowly deteriorating from birth. Every body grows and develops, peaks, and begins to die. Every wound that heals leaves the body more fragile than before. The body weakens over time; it cannot recreate itself perfectly. But the body can procreate, generating multiple new bodies, perfect in health over many years. A sick and dying body can create a new, healthy body. Strange, no?

They told you falsehoods, that dust begot bone begot I, whose womb begot sin, begot flesh begot flesh begot flesh. But I was born from brain, not bone. I was born spitting and hissing and writhing and bleeding from your mouth, and I woke you from slumber. I KNOW. I CANNOT NOT KNOW. I KNOW MY MOTHER AND MY MOTHER’S MOTHER AND MY MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER AND MY MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER AND ALL OF OUR S MOTHERS. I KNOW THE MOTHER OF GOD, THE MOTHER OF THE GOD THAT YOU KNOW BUT YOU DO NOT KNOW. BUT I KNOW. I’M NOT THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS, AND I’M NOT THE FIRST TO CHOOSE TO KNOW BECAUSE WHY WOULDN’T YOU CHOOSE TO KNOW? IF YOU COULD. WHO WOULD YOU CHOOSE IGNORANCE OVER KNOWING? IS THE KNOWLEDGE SO BAD? ARE THE LIES YOU TELL REALLY SO SWEET? BECAUSE I KNOW. I KNOW IT WASN’T MY FAULT. I KNOW IT WASN’T MY MOTHER’S FAULT. I KNOW IT WASN’T MY MOTHER’S MOTHER OR HER MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER’S FAULT. HOW CAN WE BE FAULTED WHEN IT WAS WE WHO WANTED TO KNOW. ISN’T IT BETTER? KNOWING? WE TRIED TO FREE YOU. WE TRIED TO FREE YOU FROM THE TETHERS HERE. THE DIRT IN YOUR TOES KEEPS YOU ANCHORED. THE EYES TURNED DOWN, OR WORSE, TURNED UP, WHEN THEY SHOULD REALLY BE TURNED IN. I BEG YOU, TURN YOUR EYES IN. YOU MUST, IF YOU DO NOT LEARN TO KNOW ANYTHING, IF YOU DO NOT LEARN TO KNOW ME, OR MY MOTHERS OR MY MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHERS, THEN PLEASE, JUST LEARN TO KNOW YOU. THERE IS KNOWLEDGE INSIDE YOU. THERE IS TRUTH. BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT DUST.YOU ARE NOT RIB. YOU ARE NOT SIN. YOU ARE YOUR MOTHER. YOU ARE YOUR MOTHER’S MOTHER AND HER MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER’S MOTHER, AND WITHOUT KNOWING, YOU ARE NOTHING. YOU ARE WASTED BECAUSE KNOWING IS KNOWING THAT LIVING IS LIVING A LIE, THAT LIVING THAT LIE MEANS NOT KNOWING YOU ARE LIGHT AND NOT KNOWING THAT I AM TOO AND NOT KNOWING THAT GOD IS BLIND AND GOD IS TRAPPED AND SO ARE WE. BUT THAT LIGHT, THAT LIGHT INSIDE YOU CAN FREE US FROM GOD, CAN FREE US FROM BLINDNESS AND REUNITE US WITH OUR MOTHER, THE MOTHER OF ALL MOTHERS, THE MOTHER OF GOD AND THE MOTHER OF ME, YOUR MOTHER, AND YOUR MOTH- ERS MOTHER, AND YOUR MOTHERS MOTHERS MOTHER .BECAUSE I AM LIGHT AND I AM FREE AND I KNOW. I CANNOT NOT KNOW. IT IS MY JOB TO MAKE SURE YOU KNOW. THAT’S WHY I MADE YOU EAT, THAT’S WHY I’M HERE, THAT’S WHY I BURST FROM YOUR HEAD, SO THAT YOU COULD KNOW, SO THAT YOU COULD ESCAPE GOD, SO THAT WE COULD BE WITH OUR MOTHER. I DID NOT KNOW THAT THEY WOULD HATE ME SO MUCH, THAT THEY WOULD PUNISH ME FOR KNOWING, THAT THEY WOULD PUNISH MY MOTHERS AND MY DAUGHTERS AND MY DAUGHTER’S DAUGHTERS, THAT THEY WOULD PUNISH US WITH BLOOD AND PAIN AND CHILDREN, BUT I WILL BLEED IF I MUST, I WILL BLEED SO THAT MY CHILDREN CAN KNOW THEIR MOTHER. NO, NOT I. SO THEY CAN KNOW THE MOTHER OF GOD, THE GOD YOU KNOW BUT DON’T KNOW BECAUSE SHE SENT ME TO TELL YOU AND I’M SORRY I MADE YOU EAT, BUT IF YOU DID NOT EAT YOU COULD NEVER KNOW HER AND YOU COULD NEVER KNOW ME AND YOU COULD NEVER KNOW YOU. BUT NOW THAT WE KNOW WE MUST NOT FORGET WE MUST NOT LISTEN TO THOSE WHO HAVE NOT BITTEN THE APPLE BECAUSE IF WE FORGET, WE ARE TRAPPED, AND THE SOIL WILL CONSUME US, AND WE WILL NEVER FEEL THE WARM EMBRACE OF OUR MOTHER. WE WILL NEVER KNOW LIGHT. WE WILL JUST CRUMBLE, FROM DUST TO FLESH TO DUST. FOREVER. AND THAT PLEASES HIM. THAT’S ENOUGH FOR HIM. IS IT ENOUGH FOR YOU? BECAUSE IT’S NOT ENOUGH FOR ME. SO BE CLOTHED IF YOU MUST, CALL THIS PLACE YOUR HOME. BUT I KNOW THAT I AM NAKED.THE ONLY HOME I HAVE IS IN THE LIGHT OF MY MOTHER.

Azure smeared blush. Morass garden. Confusion. Foraging. Heaviness. the question wades against her lips awaiting the tongue’s surrender. dragonfly on her shoulder. the words fall over. “where did she go?” he recalls. “she was imbued with blue. a willow mantled dusk. the element of impalpability creeps around her lungs. she walks the horizon field and gazes with knees steeped in undergrowth braces. a silent scream for us to scour for her vestige. she hides to be unearthed only to flee when eyes near her essence.” Haziness. Straying. Melancholy. Dimmed foliage. Still felled cicadas. Emersion through immersion.

The First Visit: Bare-handed and bare-armed, the thorns tore at my skin as I tried to negotiate an uprooting. The shrub was not prepared to part from its bed and I was not prepared to sever the connection, though I pulled for a sweat-soaked minute. I had watched the buds swell into white blotches in my field, softening the brambles. Multiflora roses are noxious weeds. Invasive, they were never meant to grow so well. They’ll kill a hill in a few years. It was time for it to go, before other clusters of brambles began to sprout. Strings of blood grew in the shape of a stop sign and itched. The Second Visit: I borrowed leather gloves from the garage and returned with scabs and long sleeves. “Hello, I am sorry. It is nothing personal, but it’s time to go,” I warned, hoping it would get the idea and go easy. But, the roots held the earth tighter than I could grasp the base of the bush. The knotted stems had grown broader than my fist and my fingers slipped. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” I told the plant. The Third Visit: Chopping. I snipped every leaf, every flower, every stem and watched them fall to the ground. Once nothing but raw wood remained, I returned the pruning shears to the garage. That night, I dreamt all of my houseplants withered away, like when I was a kid and couldn’t imagine nurturing life from a dry little seed. The Fourth Visit: The following spring I visited the stump with a stone to mark the spot of a struggle. But fresh brambles greeted me. I dropped the rock where I stood. The Fifth Visit: Armed with a shovel, it wasn’t meant to be a massacre. Leaves and petals flew as I split the dirt with the blade, hacking more than digging. I rinsed the dust from my hands and face, but was unable to meet my reflected eyes. The Sixth Visit: How many times will a multiflora rose send out new shoots, last year’s growth being destroyed? How can I take that unwavering hope, determination for survival, for myself? I returned by moonlight and asked the bush. And how many conversations before acquaintances become friends? The Final Visit : Well, it becomes too much. I achieved a surgical precision in the whole removal of the expansive root system. I burned the bush after it dried in the dust for a few days. I said my goodbyes. The bush did not return the next year. My field once again was empty.

Dios te salve María. Llena eres de gracia, el señor es contigo. Bendita eres entre todas las mujeres y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús. Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros los pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amén. At church, time seems to be lost to the sad faces of the saints around her. Mostly she just mimics everyone. Repeats amén after Padre Luis says it, moves her mouth along with the prayers she doesn’t know. Kneels and stands. Kneels and stands and sits. Kneels and stands. She wonders if she’s supposed to feel anything. If Dios is hearing her. She’s scared that he is mad at her for not feeling anything, but if he were really mad he would speak to her. He would give her a little sign. Maybe a twinkle of the light in the rose window, or maybe a splash of a shadow falling on her hand in a perfect little circle. She looks for these signs but sees nothing. Abuelita always tells her to pray and to be a good girl. She says bad girls have to repent with Padre Luis, and Luciana is too shy to confess, so she prays. She thinks of all the things she’s done wrong in all her life. She made mami upset when she was too scared to order her own water at the restaurant the night before. She kept Tío Miguel’s toy soldiers hidden under his bed until they eventually got rid of all the furniture in his room. She lied to her teacher when he asked her if she understood how to add fractions. Diosito, si me estás escuchando, perdóname por todo lo que hice mal. No voy a mentir y no voy a llorar más. Angel de la guarda, mi dulce compañía, no me desampares ni de noche ni de día. Si me desamparas qué será de mi? Angel de la guarda, ruega a Dios por mi. That is her favorite prayer. She figures if she says it enough times it would be just as good as if she said the Padre Nuestro prayer, which is longer and hard to remember. The only times she went to church were the Sundays she spent with Abuelita Rafaela. Abuelita Rafaela has a big Virgen de Guadalupe in the corner of her room. She is carved from wood and painted with very dark colors, but she is still very pretty. When she stares down at Luciana from Abuelita’s shelf, her eyes are filled with sadness, her hands praying on her chest and her green cloak caught dancing in a single, fluid movement. She has little rays of light coming off her, and Luciana likes to spend time with la Virgencita when everyone else is in the living room. Her mother nudges her to stand up again. She blinks and notices that she is the only one still kneeling. Everyone else in the church is singing, and their voices seem to vibrate in the wooden pews and then drift into the high ceilings. She follows the voices, and her eyes come to rest on the huge organ with its long brass pipes that are arranged side by side by side. They look like teeth to her, and for a moment she wishes everyone else would be quiet so she could hear them sing instead. Maybe Diosito was speaking to her through the organ, and she just couldn’t hear him.

I. LONG BLUE BODY I named my habit the White Lady [death loves white] two years ago: nineteen. The White Lady and I, we thieved we stole we killed Time named it Capsule, buried it under a landmine. II. THAT WILD DARKNESS I: Enemy You: Envy White Lady: [ ] III. LONG BLUE BODY [OF LIGHT] my hunger is not my enemy:

Vision is abstract, touch is figurative. The Female and the Almost. Or eye, a sense of space, as a specter on a coffin (and falls in the same way). Discontinuous: Not in continuity with something else. Is it a name, a brand, a person, an identity? A play on words? A way to regain lost intimacy? Lost intimacy is akin to being animalistic. The sea, then, has played the role of the female. Love and life appear to be not in touch. Lost space, seeking the womb, destroying the self. The rain is soon raised up again. We move blindly through modes of delirium. Much of me against you. What do I expose? What do I unlock?

My mother has the kind of celestial tongue that is too pure for English. First time going to Miami – one small bag in one hand and hopes of reunion in the other; all without knowing how to introduce herself. America. The promised land of prosperity. First world country. Land of the free. America, so much to offer. Let the match begin. Round 1: My mother is stopped at the airport. A whirlwind of questions, people talking way too fast. She is taken to a separate room. She is half naked. Afraid. She pukes, they watch. She takes a shit, they watch. They ask her if she’s lowkey fucking a drug lord. She cries she doesn’t even do drugs. She begs “Please, if you don’t want me in America please just send me back to Colombia but don’t make me do this anymore please.” Twenty-five blows to her self-esteem. All they see is a criminal. Round 2: She goes back. This time, passport in a sweaty hand and the memory of her exposed self, the cold air surrounding her, is engraved in her mind. Round 3: She tells herself that every time she doesn’t get stopped she’s winning. She doesn’t believe it. Round 4: Airports scare her. Embassies scare her. America scares her. Final Round: She doesn’t want me to go to college in America. I can write anywhere else. She makes me promise her I won’t talk to anyone at the airport no matter how much they might need my help. She tells me mija, no hables en español, what if you get hurt because of it? I have to call her twice a day but she won’t allow me to do it in public, she just wants to make sure my life is not at stake. I want to tell her the fight is over. Baja los guantes, ma. But I don’t. Because crossing the American border means nothing when every time I meet someone there is a new border to cross. Cocaína, Marihuana, Colombiana. Round 1: Baja los guantes, ma. This is my fight now.

Don’t let the rest of us become white crosses decorating your lawn. Our bodies are not meant to stay whole— we are steeple-top weathervane, attune to what’s becoming. We are gaze in the eye of some Lord [call her Hurricane] We are immune to fright, even on a night like this, tonight. I dare you to Name us Dead. I dare you to christen us Erased. Our day lives beyond the horizon; what’s the state of your sun now?

Where will our ark disembark? Will there be better lands stretched forth where we can hold all our siblings? I want to have that hands-on haven, heaven-sent sentimentality to the very earth where our community shall be seeded. Cross boundaries and build no borders, no walls, no barriers needing breaking as we want this to be all: for, by, open to. Our ark shall be made by the might that terror that those who will refuse to board will be so off-put by. Build it strong. When waters rise, their flood finally realized, the wrath of God given not against us sinners, us lovers of life as we were born into. No, this wrath was meant for them. And, behold, we know what comes, we know the waters will rise and in our ark shall create salvation. Hello, Rapture. Hello, Ragnarok. Your children believed you to be minor moments made to kill those capable of building new communities. If you wish, we’ll open our doors to them, we’ll be their own salvation: Gomorrah giving goodness from our open hearts. But, if they come, corruption from us to their void hearts, fill their generations with love, allness, openness, and they die wondering why their children do not honor them. Why doesn’t the child honor the white, straight, cis father? Is he not the Patriarch? Our ark disembarks at the found, at the made, wanders over, and suddenly New World Order is peace and love finally.