Poems by Rose

Six Chairs
 
Five of us came to America;
one bedroom held us all.
My parents crossed with college degrees—
then started over small.
 
My father, Political Science.
My mother, Accounting.
Most wages went to lawyers and fees;
little remained for anything.
 
For nearly a year, we had no table,
no chairs where five could eat.
We spread plastic across the floor
and made the ground our seat.
 
Thanksgiving. Christmas. Ordinary nights.
Five plates upon the floor.
At ten, I saved what relatives gave,
dreaming of toys from the store.
 
That Christmas, I still wanted toys,
but knew what we lacked at home.
At Home Depot sat six wooden chairs,
ten dollars apiece—
I spent all sixty of my own.
 
The table came later—I don’t know how.
I only remember this:
six wooden chairs stood around it,
where once there had been emptiness.
 
Years passed. Life widened with the rooms.
Two bedrooms. Two baths. Citizenship.
Better furniture. A heavy, round glass table—
those wooden chairs did not quite fit.
 
Still, we kept them.
 
Even when one began to break,
we still would not let go;
its crooked frame recalled the meals
we ate so long ago.
 
And whenever life grew comfortable,
those chairs kept us humble:
six wooden reminders of where we started—
where our family began in America.
 
 
 
 
Assimilated
 
Not long after we came to America,
I learned what textbooks could not teach:
I knew my English on the page,
but conversation outran my speech.
 
My parents held me back in fifth grade,
so my younger sisters had me near;
the last seat left at Hazeltine
was beside a girl the class learned to fear—
a foot taller; I was clearly outweighed,
still finding my footing here.
 
One day she drove blunt scissors
hard into my right thigh.
No blood spilled, but pain pulsed past skin to spirit;
I went to Ms. Di Lorenzo, trying not to cry.
 
I did not know how to say she stabbed me,
so I mimed what words could not explain—
strange things an immigrant child learns
when language has not caught up with pain.
 
Four years passed. English settled in my mouth;
my words came easy, crisp and clear.
In Van Nuys, I watched fifth grade reappear:
 
out of nowhere, there she was,
pussy posse parading at her side.
They walked straight toward me.
Across the street, a church stood open—
 
SANCTUARY.
 
Some bodies fight. Some bodies flee.
Mine chose a third: I froze instead—
an opossum playing dead.
 
Our Father, who art in heaven—
 
She kept coming.
 
Hallowed be Thy name—
 
Closer.
 
Thy kingdom come—
 
Closer still.
 
Deliver us from evil.
 
This is where I die.
 
And then—
 
she hugged me.
 
My hands flew toward my face
as her arms closed the space.
 
“I’m sorry,” she said.
 
I had every word I once had lacked,
yet not one came when she drew near.
I only stared; my body answered—
 
I peed myself a little—
 
still waiting for her arms around me
to turn into the harm I feared.
 
I became assimilated that day—
not by papers, fluency, or time,
but when the girl who made me feel
my very presence crossed a line
 
held me close instead of harming me.
Her apology stamped what papers miss:
some crooked proof I belonged here too—
not permission to stay, but simply this:
 
permission to simply be.
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RED, WHITE, AND BLUE
 
An unpaid volunteer, I took my place,
a teacher’s aide with one clear task in hand:
teach letters, numbers, colors, every shape
to a first-grade boy newly from Mexico,
and help him learn the language of this land.
 
I knew too little Spanish to explain,
and he knew not one English word at all.
I took that silence home and thought again;
next day, I brought a crayon box to class—
and found our first shared language in the wax.
 
I held up red between us. “Red,” I said.
He answered me, quite certain: “Rojo.”
I gave him mine; he gave me his instead.
One color, two names. Something clicked in place,
and suddenly we both knew where to go.
 
We emptied out that box from shade to shade,
two immigrants connecting, side by side.
I taught him English; Spanish came my way,
each crayon crossed our language divide—
a bridge of color opening wide.
 
Perhaps I knew because I’d crossed it too—
that distance between silence and a word,
the strange first sounds a new tongue asks of you,
the quiet relief of finally being heard.
 
By the final crayon, both of us had learned:
he knew his colors now in English too;
red—rojo; white—blanco; and blue—azul…
The lesson passed between us and returned:
I came to teach and left a student too.
 
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MAMAS with TATAS!

Found each other on Facebook
Hard to get unhooked
Both from Los Angeles area
Dorming together, hell ya!

Russian actress, in the making
But in America, she will be staying
Forty, double D, her size
No one can top that prize!

The other is Filipina
When you see hers, you would wanna
Smaller, her thirty-eight D may be
But she will bring you to your knee!

Bitches of UCR, look out!
These girls will make you pout
Brains, talents, and curves are their package
So, better leave now with your luggage!
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Procrastination

Procrastination, my backstabbing friend,
You lure me away from responsibilities,
With your interesting and fun activities,
Like countless hours we spent on Facebook,
Or impromptu roadtrips just to have a look,
Any other task's okay just for time misspent

Procrastination, my backstabbing friend,
My countless deadlines are soon to come,
Perhaps you're expecting me to succumb,
But alas! Are you forgetting who I am?
In my veins it flows, I am Queen of Cram,
Mere minutes all it takes until I click "SEND"
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Capitalism

Like a lifeless machine,
l am a slave
To society nurtured by Greed,
Whose limitless power is fueled
By countless wealth
Through our collective sweat and blood;
He blinds us with false dreams
Of upward mobility for all,
Only to be woken up
By his screeching spy Clock,
Whose omniscient face invades
All aspects of our limited lives;
Try as we may to escape
By migrating to what once was haven,
Greed's claws transformed the sacred place
Into its mirror image,
Luring more unsuspecting victims
And transforming them
Into lifeless machines.
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Invisible Hand

In the mall I saw
Something shiny that left me in awe;
I bought it in a heartbeat for I knew
That I can't bid it adieu.

A. specter Smith appeared to me,
And said to let the craving be;
It's this society that keeps you buying,
And making the presidents go running.