With the launch of our blog, we here at Lux wanted to share some beautiful poetry from our editors for your weekend. We would love for you to share your poetry with us as well. You can submit your work for Volume 17 up to December 4th.
because dreaming costs money, my dear — Carolina Quintero
being monolingual is pitiful when it is not english
but her spanish is solid like honey
sounds candied with authenticity
a futile tongue tastes of metal
she swallows copper for ten years now
mouth rooftops extinguish the American dream
when her kids make her tongue the greatest comedian
mijo sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth
trapping the sour feeling of spanish—
he watches his dented words become hail
not escaping to contaminate her sweetness
mijo and her scavenge for the American dream
dirt drinks their bloody fingernails
mijo cannot fake surprise
he lets his tears clean
the dirt under their nails they cut my tongue into thirds not from here
not from there
not from anywhere
she understands
politicians who wear discount tags on their hearts
spit aliens out with naked heels
raw with contempt
but not why her mijo
shrinks in public to be a victim of discrimination to be a disappointment of deculturation
A Dream in California
Amelie
I saw us--bandaged together
with an assortment of tie-dye and denim bought at the thrift store
riding in our beaten up faded teal volkswagen van
held together by the seams
carrying us towards where the ocean breaks with the sand
The ocean
dotted with surf boards carving through barrels
and the sand
sprinkled with vibrant rainbows of umbrellas
The famous billboard letters nestled in the side of a hill
Palm trees lining symmetrical parallel streets
We are lured there, like others, chasing rapid wealth or fame.
Bags packed
Light enough to sling onto one shoulder
Not much;
but we don’t need much
Instead we bring our dreams and hopes of a new tomorrow.
Stopping on the side, where a shack that leans
has a hand painted sign above, advertising shrimp tacos
I expect California Dreamin to be playing on the jukebox,
but instead, it is a melody
sang by the souls of those bearing broken dreams.
Further into the city’s heart
I catch glimpses of those who call the streets their home:
not simply begging for change lying at the bottom of stock-brokers pockets
but begging to walk the asphodel meadows.
Nearing the beach--
the air and water not only polluted with the waste of factories, but also
with the corrupt lies of those who we entrusted to lead us.
The grey clouds roll in
Engulfing the sun
The sea no longer shimmers and glitters in clear turquoise,
but instead crashes with glooming furiosity.
Silent City by Grace Bronder
Stoic pine trees stare into the silent city.
They are the guardians,
watching as young souls pass through its leafy walls.
What at first felt like a warm embrace
became a suffocating strangle.
The guardians had laid their trap.
This fresh start broke the heart
inside of every soul in that city.
New faces were merely blank spaces as the guardians feasted in the city.
The silent city turned souls into energy conduits.
I was sick of it.
The pines could no longer bury down
the secrets that hide within this town.
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