Photo by the artist Djilas Gomez @djilasgomez.



For Angy Abreu 

was easier for you.
It is your superpower
to grow more cells
between your legs
and ego
but there’s an espacio vacío
on your tiny brain
Hitting, fuck! Golpear 
was easier for you
escupiendo words on her face
you opened up su piel like
a wanted envelope
there is nothing green inside – you thought
He opened up scars that never existed
too bad, the woman in her won’t take crap
too bad, the woman in her won’t shut up
she is the Amazon
wild and beautiful, but don’t tempt her
wild and deep
“don’t touch me”
She is not the false man made green venom
you waited on,
she’s worse…
a scar that won’t weep
it would just dry like the sticky side of the envelope
not like the organ in his pants
that will only oxide with time.


Speak up against domestic violence 🚫‼

He Ate The Moon

The destination
he intended to
have was more black
than white, luckily, he assimilated
like his ancestors, he ate the moon and thought it was magic.

upon finding out she bleeds

que intentó tener
era más negro que
el blanco, por suerte, asimiló
al igual que sus antepasados, se comió la luna y pensó que era magia.

al descubrir que ella sangra

Distancia con Olor a Cellphone

Esta es una colaboración con la poeta y escritora dominicana, Karolyn Castro. 

Ese celular inteligente no traerá tus mordidas de viento.
Ese bruto, inútil, pedazo de hierro
que intenta remplazar el sol en tu piel
cuando nunca se podrá comparar,
a él, a ese aparato “complex“,
se monta de gratis en el bolsillo,
también un espacio en mi ear ocupa,
es la única manera de que la luz se derrita por el screen empañado, y entres,
aunque el mar se abra…más profundo.

F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry

Despierto al brillo y al sonido de la alarma
Esa que guarda cada alba
Los besos mañaneros que las millas
Han robado a mi boca y a mi alma
Sonrío, me desperezo, algo mojada
Pensando en las posibilidades que pierdo
Ante esta fría pantalla
Que burlona se jacta
De ser dueña de nosotros por culpa de la distancia.

Karolyn Castro ©


   Photo by Ismael Rodríguez @ismrodz

The Africa in me won’t go to sleep,

so please…

let me be free as the sea.


El África en mi no va dormir,

así que por favor…

déjenme ser libre como el mar.

De nuevo.



L e n t a m e n t e


Va naciendo

Va creciendo

como un árbol

esta medio vivo

hasta que rápidamente

vea el olor de sus ojos

ha visto nacer el fuego

al conocerla a ella, a ella


si no, se va a dormir solo,

sin vida.



S l o w l y


it is being born

it will grow

like a tree

it is half alive

until quickly

it sees the smell of her eyes

until you meet her, her

you would not see

the fire been born


if not, you go to sleep alone,



De todas tus mentiras la que más me encanto fue la que no dijiste con tu lengua pero sí con tu cara, como por ejemplo… “Yo no quiero comer más, estoy lleno”, y tu boca goteando.

Of all your lies, the one that I liked the most was the one that you didn’t say with your tongue, but with your face. For example, “I don’t wanna eat, I’m full,” and you’re there salivating.

Jamaica Avenue 


Photo by José Silva

“The bus left me this morning. It was damn cold. Don’t be. Don’t be fooled by this tin light you see across Jamaica Avenue. I am burning inside, I have the Dominican sun inside me. I survived. I don’t know. No me pregunten. ¡Que se yo! I don’t really know, how can one adapt? How can you pretend you don’t miss a single thing? Your hands are cold, freezing, hard-heartless-cold winter got me this time. I am lying, not only this time… multiple times. There, while waiting for the Q56. In front of everyone, it did not cared a bit. My twelve year old self was desperated. You would be too, if someone would take you away from the bright sun that burns your body while bringing happiness under a tranquil wooden house in the campo. It has mutilado lo que soy, ahora. I told you I was not lying, I was honest from the beginning. I, myself, no longer wait for the MTA to sent me the bus to go somewhere. I persist fighting against a winter that I did not give birth to, holding it like a child, even if it cries and pulled my brown hair, I still have patience to give him love. But this bus, the one I am waiting on, I don’t want to take me anywhere. I want to just go home. I hope, I really hope, with all my mixed heart that the driver have a pilot license, home is far–not here.” —La niña diaspora


This is a collaboration with a talented and special writer from Hawaii @Christy.Passion. This photo was taken by yours truly to a special woman and her kid.

They want us to remember
the afternoon glow through
muslim curtains over the kitchen sink,
where they gently lowered
out tiny newborn bodies
into warm sudsy water
humming, always humming;
hoping we remember our
weightlessness and quenched
Could we forget their gaze,
little birds pegged on our
fingers and toes,
lifting their downy masterpieces
preparing us for flight.

— @Christy.Passion

Mothers. Woman. Nature .
The ones who are always looking through the clutter of toys for an “everything is all right” filled with dirty fingernails,and
Registering. Insisting. Pacifying. Consenting.Loving in all the ways you can imagine,the bodies of their birds bloom since we too were feathers in their arms.They always keep a moment between their white stretch marks.They do not want the wind to grow.
Still, they turn up the melody,dancing in the kitchen, letting her creatures free outside the room of her own belly.

—F.P. @Mujerconvoz_poetry