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This essay is a treatment.
I think of JSA Lowe’s poems the way I think of American trompe l’oeil…
I imagine entering the 1933 Century of Progress Fair felt to Chicagoans of the day like…
He drew a cooing dove from a cage on the porch. He caressed her breast and stretched her out to me…
When I was eight, I thumbed through a book of poetry in my mother’s library, a compendium of Mexican poetry…
Every queer person has a relationship to monster stories. When we’re told we’re freaks, abnormal oddities of society, otherness internalizes.
The sound crackled down my grandparents’ skylit stairway to me, then a child listening to cascañuelas chirping in my grandmother’s bedroom…
My former partner and I used to share a joke that, internally, I was a sixty-seven year old woman.
If you don’t speak Spanish, google it. This is the twenty-first century.
If your life has been touched by violence, you know it is insidious like a weed—it winds itself into the cracks, rubbles foundations…
Even from a distance, as Zora parks their car among the maze of vehicles in the field, Xochitl can see the carnival lights…
I have many childhood associations with swimming pools; learning at age seven how to let go of the paddle board…
There is something about Ana Castillo’s latest poetry collection, My Book of the Dead, that has the quality of being woven…
Before the pandemic, Catherine Adel West and I enjoyed a scrumptious dinner at The Allis Chicago.
I see her through the window coming up the sidewalk and I know it’s mija.
One November Sunday in 1997, when she’s thirteen, she and her mother go on a grocery trip.
A Review of “If You Weren’t Looking for It: The Seminary Co-Op Bookstore”