Rumpus Originals
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Hell Is the Absence of God’s Love
We watch the neighbors and the high schoolers as we sip cold gin at the window. There’s the widow from the other side of the loop who chuckles while she takes an old Playgirl calendar and a paperback of Vixens…
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National Poetry Month: “SUPER BOWL LX: BENITO”
Meaning the Boricua, not the brutish brain that argued Everything in the State, nothing outside the State, nothing against the State; meaning the man of the island outside US borders but not outside US possession, the descendant of sugarcane and…
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National Poetry Month: “The Longshot”
The first woman ever made, walked into the hippodrome, counterclockwise, her jet arms paying homage to the great sunflower field of mothers she had left behind, scenic hips reminiscent of old bougainvillea
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The One Who Pierces Snow
It was a game some of us played during recess, hidden behind a corner from the supervision of a teacher. We took turns. The person to depart would take in a deep breath and hold it, standing against a wall…
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Three Poems
Lately, I’ve been angry with the world— it’s my new coping mechanism. Somewhere in my country, an oversized penis is being chiseled into the vagina of a six-year-old. I want it to break
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Three Poems
Fish Crew We feed our neighbors’ fish when they’re away,goldfish living in small man-made ponds.Anna’s yard is a tangle of flowering shrubs,pink and white blooms, small waterfallthat foams into the tiny pool.We throw some pellets in and wait.The fish swim…
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There Is Only a God in Grief
I always talked about how much stronger it made me, how many skeletons in my closet I’m able to keep quiet. What I never talked about were the conversations I used to have with his god. Or is it God?…
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Lunatics in America
Though La Niña always giggled at the word, enchanted by its rhythm, it didn’t take long for her to understand: not everything in America was wonderful. Mami had made sure of that—warning her about guns, about the way even little…
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Saibin (the Visitation of Our Lady)
Our Lady’s journey began, as it did each year—even in our time—at the chapel of our village of Arossim, and would move from there to each house in the village. Our Lady was encased in a tiny wooden chamber, for…
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Three Poems
my pussy hurts. Like it’s been kicked. Cunt feels too tough. It’d never admit to feeling pain. Vagina’s imprecise
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Hunger
I never remembered the significance of that Beatitude, only that hunger— for God, for food—was part of the equation.
