Like Grecian statues / they sit quietly on the first day / waiting intentionally for the / acknowledgment of existence. / Andrew the ex-high school running back, / where his A's equated to touchdowns. / The field his temporary escape  / from friends turned gang members, / college his final escape / from the irony of his city, / El Monte.

I cannot weep another child through / my throat is full. Eyes brimless. / Heart, / one drum’s-breath from the anvil, holding.

Lover. Remember when we got high by the Hudson? How I hiked up my baby blue mini skirt / and straddled your thighs, your Sak pasé rubbing against my Mi amor? We were babies then. / Running away from the mothers who fed us each night.

His tongue drowns / my neck and my hopes / turn back to CNN