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Author Archives: Margaret Elysia Garcia
We are all lied to, my love mostly by ourselves we tell ourselves stories in which to wallow in which to cave in which to concede that is how we found ourselves today you with an unfinished assignment me with … Continue reading
” We have been wounded by it (giving)” –Alberto Rios Giving: What it Takes My car door slammer, my you-don’t-get-it-you’re-too-old, my you-should-be-home-making-cookies my you-promised-me-you-guys-wouldn’t-split-till-i-was-out-of-the-house My Daughter. Full of intensity and scowl Full of cat eyes and hoop earrings Looking for … Continue reading
Poetry is Possibility: Memoir-izing the day and Dwelling in the senses of the aftermath of living this moment to the next. This idea that words mean something new when arranged differently specifically on a page.
Daughter Land She reaches over and touches my hand tells me with her fake nailed manicured hand that she loves me– The year has taught me that words are fraught as any hand that could slap and scream I duck … Continue reading
I had a few in my notebook this week that I never got out to the pages here: April 5 A Love Poem It is becoming real this comfortable sync into his eyes sync into his skin — You are … Continue reading
Holding on to Joy No, no, no– Nuh-uh. In this moment. This singular moment when my heart is singing when my mind is made up of everything I can give— When my voice has found an ear and my ear … Continue reading
I’m taking away from his day of nothing by forcing him to hang out and possibly do things with me like lunch, buying stuff for a project I’ve been nagging him about. Most times we exist in car rides and … Continue reading
Lassen Yard My Mondays are full up now with men in (a different kind of) blue Swapping words & stories about the outside the barbed wire world my someday writers my pen stealers I look forward to the long drive … Continue reading
Yay! It’s national poetry month! Here’s my first offering of the month. A Tanka for Easter We sit on the couch before twilight–a Sunday of drives, of history, of lock eyed hunger and thoughts ever drifting, ever new.