Happy Birthday, Maya


Maya Angelou

When I was 9 years old, my dad took me to Bookmans Flagstaff, AZ, the one whose roof caved in that one winter because of the heavy snowfall. It was my favorite place to hang out as a kid, a close second to the library at Christensen Elementary. My librarians used to let me relax in the big windows during lunch time, even though they didn’t have to. I remember writing stories when I was in head-start at Siler Homes, when I hit first grade, but it wasn’t until I heard a poem read by my third grade student teacher that I realized a real thirst for poetry. Mz. Mac, long black hair, piercings, chains hanging off her well-put-together-teacherly belt loops, and the best handwriting I had ever seen, the aura that I was admiring as queer before that word made sense to me, Mz. Mac read from a compilation poetry book, and I knew something was being born inside of me.

My dad took me to Bookmans that weekend and as he sat talking to the video game dudes in the corner, I browsed sections I had never realized existed before. When I found the poetry section mixed in with the rest of the adult books, it all seemed so much bigger than I expected. I grabbed a step stool and read the names of writers I had never heard of. Where do it start?! How can I tell what one book is going to be about?! What even IS poetry?! I could taste it. An employee walked by me and asked if he could help me out with finding a book. I told him, “I’m looking for a poetry book but I don’t know who to choose.” He said, “Here, try this one. Let’s start with the A’s, and if you don’t like it, bring it back and I’ll find you another. She’s one of the best poets around.” He handed me Maya Angelou’s Complete Collected Poems. He didn’t redirect me to the children’s section, he didn’t ask me how old I was. He just helped me out with a book in the section I was looking through. I am forever grateful to you, Bookmans employee.  Our interaction was a piece of the puzzle that is my life. I hopped off the stool and told my dad I was ready to go. I read the entire book on the drive home. Then I read it two more times when I got there.
19 years later, I’ve read it hundreds of times. So much in fact, that people have gifted me with numerous other copies because my original is so tattered and wrecked. After this exposure, I couldn’t get enough poetry, so I bought more of her books, checked them out at the Downtown Library, found more poets, all because of Maya.
I celebrate Maya Angelou today and everyday. I am reminded of the power of words. I am inspired by her entire life story, her strength, her love, her deep connection to humanity, her honesty. Maya Angelou was a poet, singer, actor, performer, director, sex worker, civil rights activist. Every part of her existence has shaped her writing and remembered brilliance, and it’s a shame to ignore any of it. She has molded me in many ways as a writer, and as a person. When I read her work, I am instantly taken back to being 9 years old, I am instantly reminded to live in the present. I am forever growing.
And I can honestly say I owe in large part, to a woman I never met, but influenced the way my pencil touched a paper, my undying love for poetry and the written word, to her.
Thank you.
-a story, a freewrite
maya me

The Complete Collected Poems of Maya Angelou, my first love

Mother Devour

3.28.2018 / 1.31.2019

Vintage Mexican Postcard China Poblana (Teyacapan) by Teyacapan

Vintage Mexican Postcard China Poblana (Teyacapan) by Teyacapan


a mother’s home catches fire

ceramic sculptures of Christ rest 3 deep on fireplace mantles
a burner simmers frijoles & chili
the smell of cinnamon, sage, onion,
and cedar permeate the old, brown wood of home
while brass paperweights marked with fingerprints
glow golden sacramental in the wake
ninety-five salt + pepper shakers adorn the red shelves lining the kitchen
and everything screams

a voice is born
the moon is mourning
a flash fire meets gas
men in loose t-shirts and sleep in their eyes rush with great urgency / the flames
mama shouts but her screams are muffled by the cry of dogs
the sky breathes ash
tames itself grim by light of the moon

the space between the front and back door become one tunnel of red-hot blue green fire
a wormhole a trapdoor the entrance and the exit
she can see her children, huddling
in the warmth of their struggle and the cold of their breath
the stone hearth crumbles, glass breaks
her arms find theirs, wrap over,
ivy in the wreckage, spun as a shawl
woven / like wool and like husk
one child lay sprawled
under the clothes line, calm
eyes half-moon-closed / chest, still
the eldest, his arms receding back to earth at angles like yucca
underneath the shadow of the dried plum tree

there she cries
a slow rush of sky and moonlight penetrate her once cool breath
she dies a collective thirty-eight years tonight
a solidarity passage with her sons
from origin story to afterlife
the chain link fence does not set fire
a tricycle melts
she breathes and for a moment forgets how to live
mi luna, mi vida
in ten years time, i’ll light a candle
to remind myself of a birth reborn

a mother’s womb catches fire
a plum tree bears fruit


Paricutin Volcano Postcard Michoacan Mexico (Teyacapan) by Teyacapan (flickr)

Paricutin Volcano Postcard Michoacan Mexico (Teyacapan) by Teyacapan (flickr)