Angel

@everlastinglight.bsky.social

1445 Followers 732 Following

30-something Mexican-American writing for fun. Love my dog way too much. Life is hard enough, let’s try to have each other’s backs. And tell me what you think about my writing!

Mom calls me on the phone. “They’re saying it might rain.” Low chances it hits us. We don rain coats all the same. In case of clouds Weeping thick red drops.
On Learning to Dissect Fetal Pigs by Renée Nicole Macklin i want back my rocking chairs, solipsist sunsets, & coastal jungle sounds that are tercets from cicadas and pentameter from the hairy legs of cockroaches. i’ve donated bibles to thrift stores (mashed them in plastic trash bags with an acidic himalayan salt lamp— the post-baptism bibles, the ones plucked from street corners from the meaty hands of zealots, the dumbed-down, easy-to-read, parasitic kind): remember more the slick rubber smell of high gloss biology textbook pictures; they burned the hairs inside my nostrils, & salt & ink that rubbed off on my palms. under clippings of the moon at two forty five AM I study&repeat ribosome endoplasmic— lactic acid stamen at the IHOP on the corner of powers and stetson hills— i repeated & scribbled until it picked its way & stagnated somewhere i can’t point to anymore, maybe my gut— maybe there in-between my pancreas & large intestine is the piddly brook of my soul. it’s the ruler by which i reduce all things now; hard-edged & splintering from knowledge that used to sit, a cloth against fevered forehead. can i let them both be? this fickle faith and this college science that heckles from the back of the classroom now i can’t believe— that the bible and qur’an and bhagavad gita are sliding long hairs behind my ear like mom used to & exhaling from their mouths “make room for wonder”— all my understanding dribbles down the chin onto the chest & is summarized as: life is merely to ovum and sperm and where those two meet and how often and how well and what dies there.
The Old Guard Ancient medicine says disease Comes from ghosts in your blood. Well I don’t feel sick… But I can feel them in there. I’ve no need of ofrendas Or flores de cempasúchil. They are right here. The floor is cold, put on socks mija. She looks hungry. Offer her food. This needs more salt… And when life aims to cast a fatal blow, They race through my veins, Turn tender flesh to bronze, Turn tattered fists to gauntlets. They whisper. We’ve survived worse. They scream. ¡Partele su pinche madre!
Consolation I look up to you in your golden tower Bought in blood and bones Feeling no comfort nor faith That one day you will atone. But I have one single thought, Always warms my broken heart. Time is just. And one day we’ll both be dust.
The Leech A loser offering me a ride home On his motorcycle After a long shitty day. “I’ll just take you where you’re headed.” Honestly? It felt cool and it was fun, My heart bouncing like a cymbal. Til I realized I’d held on too long. And gave up too much. And I had other things I was supposed to be doing. What can I say? Rage has a certain charm.
Gift Giver You surprise me, Below the curious sparrows That soar to meet my ankles, Your eyes so wide with tears. With your bellows that ring In the ears of every person in town, “LOOK! Look at her!” You? So proud of me? “My kid can fly!” As if you don’t remember. It was you. You that ripped the clouds from the sky To make wings.
Heirlooms Amber jewels adorn me. I always admired how they shone On your dresser Back when I sat on the floor And you looked in the mirror To brush mascara on your thick lashes. “You have beautiful eyes.” People now tell me. “Thanks.” “I got them from my mom.”
El Roble The outlier, thought unworthy of even digesting. Some thoughtless ambling beast Chews me up and spits me out Where dirt begins to cover my mangled figure. Buried alive. But alive. And ultimately in my rightful place, For my roots take hold and I reach for the sky. Sat high upon a seat I did not conquer alone. For the fates saw fit to grant me tempered storms, Perhaps pitying my fragile state. I grew mighty. Today the tempests swell with wrath, Hurling detritus that scars my calloused skin And lunging to rip my hair out. Yet my fingertips outreach the tallest clouds… To feel the kisses of soft winds and sunlight. And my rhizomes spread through earth for miles, Resting in quiet lands Where this rage does not exist. This is not the first torrent of abuse I have survived. Memory begins to whisper. The sun once cast its tranquil gaze upon your face And one day it will again.
Beacon Friends have asked me how I shine so bright. My impulse is to smile and take the compliment. Well, frankly it’s a lot of work maintaining a torch, One that at times may sting or consume. And truth be told, it’s a defense mechanism For myself, those I love, and even those I see myself in. See the sun doesn’t always shine in the fringes of society And I found myself having to make my own light. For I heard word that the kingdom of heaven is within me. So I tore myself open to reveal its golden rays That I and those near to me Wouldn’t have to stumble around in the dark no more. Til civilization turned to see how I shone And pulled me closer, to a land bathed in sunshine. Somehow even here where everything gleams, Folks still remark on how I radiate. A habit I suppose. Like I can’t trust this sun that once forgot about me and mine.
A grey pitbull dog with white paws and gold eyes laying on a bed with blue sheets. A red hoodie lays over the dog, covering one of her ears, the top of her head, and the back of her body.
Little Friend Folks see us walk past, dazzled By your hematite gleam. Or they stop me To remark on the two golden rings Adorning your face, as if gifted off Odin’s fingers. Others stand clear to scan Your steel rope figure Or cross the the street, afraid Your rows of teeth may find their flesh. But they don’t see how they peek out In a silly grin when you lay belly up Or how cold gilt turns saccharine When those eyes beg for a bite of my apple. I bet even the most fearful would chuckle To hear you toot when you sit too fast Mornings after breakfast. Still, A monster to some, a work of art to others. Nonetheless, just a baby.
Melissa Schemmenti from the tv show Abbott Elementary.
Empty Head Some days it occurs to me That I have time to write And I find my reservoir for words Run dry. As if monotony drank them all. As if the sun no longer shined and rain ceased to fall. As if I did not love or anger. As if there was no war. Until I scratch the surface, Past the mask our spirits bear That our minds and bodies may endure Eternal internal maelstroms resulting from… life. Deep down there, I find it. That is to say, I gaze upon myself. So deeply in love that I live in an oil painting, So enraged my cells could burn down a forest, My heart so broken my tears could fill oceans. And so grateful for all of it.
A grey dog sleeping on a light grey couch belly up with her head covered in a big blanket
Stairway My mom said the song was beautiful. No doubt It was her they’d written it about, Though she wasn’t someone they’d met, So we bought us a stairway to heaven off the internet. And we bounced on the moon. It felt like those fancy beds inside the rooms In homes we used to clean, just her and me. These days we go for strolls on Mercury. And maybe I’d be slightly less elated If this place got overpopulated. But save me from the sin, Jesus, Of pulling the ladder up behind us. Let’s build the stairs real big henceforth And make neighbors out of the folks on earth. So I could love them like you and momma told. Make sure that everyone can behold Just how pretty the stars look from up here.
Underdog Anthem I look up to the sky and I pick fights with giants. Get smacked, face in the dirt, earth science, And I wonder why I am so goddamn tired. Muscles stiff, bones are cracked. I should retire. I tell me “drop the sword, drop the shield, drop the defiance”. But my spirit is ignited, allergic to compliance. Family and future on the line, I’ll do anything required. That’s my culture, family values. That’s just how I’m wired. Let’s walk lockstep with the vulnerable, a defensive alliance. Mother Mary give me guidance. A serpent says we can’t win, bow to the empire. Trace the arc of history. The devil is a liar.
Brave Face I look past her smile. Peer into my mom’s sparkling amber eyes And see the cyclone of her thoughts Whipping and lashing the inside of her mind. She’s scared. I am too. Can’t have my own storm wound her further. So I write it down, where the words can rage Between sheets of paper somewhere way, way, waaaaay in the back of a bookshelf. Let’s sit in the garden. The sunshine feels so nice today. Tell me how your flowers grow. How are the fruit trees? We can hold these blue skies for a moment. Yes, our forecast Of angry thundering merciless terror raining down May well take form above our heads one day. But today is not the day.
Animal Control Billionaires lined up in neat rows Salivating behind their leader Like hungry trained dogs waiting For their master to throw them their treat. While crowds rally at every capital Shouting, marching, crying together For vulnerable populations once forgotten. It is nice to feel supported for once. But seems a small consolation standing here In the mesh between freedom and subjugation, Perhaps cast to pull us out from drowning, But this nexus weighs heavy and I feel myself sink. Til I look around. I’m not the only one fighting to breathe. There are just so many of us And this net may yet be useful against hounds.
The Foreigner Leaned back into a quiet bath, I open my eyes to a spider Stepping so carefully across my ceiling. Hello. You’re not supposed to be here. It seems to freeze, confronted by authority. Not to worry tiny unapproved visitor, You’ve seen my scars, I know what it’s like to be crushed. Enrobed, I take a glass and paper When a foreigner resides among you in your land, And cradle my weary guest on the journey. Do not mistreat them. Gently placed to rest in the shade of hydrangeas. You’ll be safer here, little neighbor.
A grey pitbull dog laying on a light grey rug next to a light grey couch over dark hardwood floors. Rainbow streaks shine over the dog and the floor. In the background there is a dog bed, dog toys, and bones.
Fresh Meat Endless trek from work to class to work to class, They see a fawn for their feast. I thump my chest and bare my teeth. They scatter, only to return again. Working and brushing aside nights of sleep, I don’t always have the energy And start to think Haghighi had it right, Just Take Them and Leave Me Alone. But why should they? Do I not belong to me? Time, cast your cloak oer me, That I may hide where they dare not look. Ravage me for I am weary. I pray the years rush to caress Their withering hands over my flesh Before the jackals can.
Maybe I should’ve seen a doctor when I fell down the stairs.. My day interrupted by a realization Of another pain that does not heal, The sort of injury that comes with age. A sorta gift, to mark decades of survival. Gifts piled up. They always unsettle me, Not from the physical hurt, Or some fear of deterioration, But because the vertigo strikes like lighting. I’m standing on a massive ledge. Spent a lifetime stacking the years Beneath me to reach incredible dreams, But haphazard. When did I have time to plan? Balancing here precariously, Can’t tell if my construction is swaying Or does fear trick my senses? I yearn to lay the perfect steady foundation. Alas, gone too far to start fresh.
Paladin Endeavoring to treat others so gently, Some take it I would bow to them. But I am simply kneeling in worship At the altar of Kindness. Its embers do tend to catch, As if we were trees in a parched forest. Yet, a divine force that may not move everyone. No matter. For this Spirit forges me into the indomitable Neath the load of the burdens of others And casts a gorgeous sight of sonder upon my eyes. I fear little, and all is beautiful.
A photo of a grey pitbull dog with gold eyes and white paws sitting on a concrete sidewalk wearing a green harness and a red leash.
A grey pitbull dog with gold eyes and white paws sitting on a concrete sidewalk, wearing a green harness and a red leash.
A Child in the Study Perhaps I started this by not paying attention. Quill ripped from its place in my hand, Galumphing hands spatter a heavy ink All over, lacerating the pages of my life And soaking them in vantablack. I look at the ruin, and for a moment consider Dumping the entire thing in the garbage. There’s no wiping the pages, now fused Into basalte brick. But nothing is fixed in surrender. And time may yet have a way Of tearing out wasted paper, And adding blank pages in the back. So annoyed and exhausted, I pick up a rag. And I gotta to admit, My hands sure look pretty When stained by the pigment.
A dog sleeping on a couch in a blue blanket
The Garment We may cut history perfectly with hindsight And see how all the pieces should fit. It would seem simple then to sew them Into a flawless design to be worn by progeny. But the fabric of justice Proves a difficult one to work with. The thread catches and material puckers In all the wrong places. So workers stop, tear the seam, Iron the fabric smooth, and try again. A piece that appears to be Less complete today than yesterday. Revisions are progress. We keep working. After all, it’s meant to keep our children warm.
Muddy Paws My brain zooms around inside my skull Like a wet dog running in a muddy rain While I stand defeated, bellowing, “YOU GET BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!” That’s just its natural state. Only looking to have a bit of fun, But I’m tired, wet. We’re gonna be late. And I’m gonna have to wash the mud off. I could reach out to snatch it, or chase. Its slithy body slips clear through my hands. So I must be much more clever. “First one home gets to eat all the treats!” Now I have its attention.
Wednesday Morning A poem about immigration. Tired eyes brace at morning light Then at screen light. First sight tense pupils absorb is A man who deems my family “vermin” Won. I could have basked in honeyed ignorance Just a moment longer. Before rooting around for news That makes me forget how to breathe. Anyway, I have to go to work. At times I can almost steady myself. A shield of gold is all I have for my family. Yet my bones shake, they will for a long time. Mom calls. Cheer almost cloaks her terror. I do the same. Til her voice cracks. She shoves it down again, way down, with chatter. “Weather’s getting cold!” “How’s work?” “How’s your dog?” And at the end, “You should call a lawyer” “Yeah.” Likely in vain against what’s coming. Better than nothing. Petitions lay unseen. For decades. So that. Years from now. A stranger Can at last stamp my family. “Not Vermin”. Come January I always check the news To know how laws are changing, how to brace for it. And every morning, Is a Wednesday morning.
I sit at an empty table. On a heavy frozen evening Sick. Threadbare. Alone. Eating hot, tender bits of beef Over steaming grains of rice. Soaked in depths of sapor, Produce and spices reverently chosen. This fare, in truth, made by your hands, Two loving spectres guiding mine, That I could be nourished By a monument of your love for me. Though we’re apart, Here you are.
A screenshot of a skeletal news anchor from the movie “They Live”.
A grey pitbull with white paws and gold eyes making puppy-dog eyes at the camera while laying in blankets.
The Wild Quarry Hope is a skittish thing, Like prey that slips my clutches. I unclasp my hands to see only my empty palms And it’s already miles away. As I collapse starving, Dejected in a barren tundra, It waddles up beside me. Infuriating little beast! But a sweet and loving creature- It returns with a few crumbs to sustain me, Bearing a tender heart. Though I don’t appreciate its sense of humor. Yet the fault may be all mine. For, like a fool, I search for it Buried under the depths of cold despair Or far inside the darkest caverns of terror. When I know where it lives Buzzing around a hot mug of coffee at my mom’s house, Attracted to the chimes of laughter at family dinners, Or looking to feast on the falling dust as I brush myself off And rise to try again.
A grey pitbull dog with gold eyes and white paws pouts while standing on a light grey couch.
What if someone steals your poems? Or so people have asked. The least of my corcerns. That I may see my work some day Stolen for another human’s glory. I fear cold metal hands gripping my words Rushing off through a dreary storm of lighting Striking through wires to trap my feelings In a mass grave of sparkling metal coffins. I fear a soulless spirit repeating My words and my experiences, Prompted and fed by human greed, A mockery of humanity. I fear it all done to build an inexhaustible Hoard of rot that not only infects The unwitting people who come in contact, But carelessly poisons the world itself. Vespers whispered to God Himself: Please don’t let some awful corporation steal my work So that some AI program can write another cheesy ad And convince folks to buy stuff no one needs.
A grey pitbull dog with white paws and a white spot on her chest standing on a light grey couch.
Rough Rider My mind is feral stock, Turning tail at the smallest opportunity To steal fruit from neighboring orchards Or forage the wilds for its favorite sweet grass. I tear through fields and valleys after it, Returning home with burning skin, Exhausted and angry, And look up to see a spectacular sunset. Left untethered for too long, It comes back beaten and sickly. Apologizing for stolen fruit is embarrassing. But there’s no explaining that to an animal. All this for one stubborn frivolous creature? Give it the right challenge and behold a marvel. See how flawless its movements. Fearsome thunder hardly touching the ground, It can fly.
A graphic showing user @everlastinglight.bsky.social in the center and accounts they interact with surrounding their profile picture.
Maybe I should’ve seen a doctor when I fell down the stairs.. My day interrupted by a realization Of another pain that does not heal, The sort of injury that comes with age. A sorta gift, to mark decades of survival. Gifts piled up. They always unsettle me, Not from the physical hurt Or some fear of deterioration But because the vertigo strikes like lighting. I’m standing on a massive ledge. Spent a lifetime stacking the years Beneath me to reach incredible dreams, But haphazard. When did I have time to plan? Balancing here precariously, Can’t tell if my construction is swaying Or does fear trick my senses? I yearn to lay the perfect steady foundation. Alas, gone too far to start fresh.
A huge group of scarlet ibis birds nesting in trees.
A screenshot of Mew EX card from the Pokémon TCGP game.
A grey dog asleep on a couch and pillows covered by a black and red plaid blanket. In front of her is a red pillow embroidered with “Merry Christmas”. Behind her is a Christmas tree with lights and a red ribbon wrapped around it and presents underneath.