The 4 Incredibly Relatable Poems You Should Read This Fall

Scrambled Light


I am a woman.
I’m not a carton of eggs
To be sold at the market
And reduced to rotting trash
When my smooth, docile shell

If sexism is dead
Then why am I told
Not to walk alone in the moonlight?
My voice is too loud
I should cover my shoulders
Because I’m not big enough to make a difference
Yet somehow big enough to be a distraction.

Real men, “worthy” human beings
need to be the smartest, the best.
But the sharpest tool in the shed is still a tool.
Men are supposed to be tall
Real men don’t cry.
Gender stereotypes put people in boxes
But human beings aren’t bubble wrap.
The goal should be to raise sons
Who realize the moon doesn’t exist
As their backup light.

So when my smooth, docile shell
Don’t sell me at the market
And replace me with a dozen eggs
Or another backup light on the shelf.

For my Mom


You draw laugh lines on my face
Cuban black beans bubble on the stove.
We are connected like the roots of a tree
In Spanish, I am La Luna y tu eres la Luz del sol
Our names make us a solar eclipse
Forever finding our way into each other’s arms.

You made me a necklace for my 10th birthday,
Green choker, blue beads, and a silver crescent charm.
Years later I still wear it
And hear your laugh
The way it echoes
after a long night of Scrabble.
Seventeen years ago we were one
Just like how the moon used to be part of the earth.
My birth was a meteor shower
And even when I’m far away
You’ll always see me glitter in the night sky.
And when there’s a new moon
You can behold my presence
Capture me in a single moment of cosmos.

From you I inherited my tiny feet
And the ability to read under the covers until 3 A.M.
We may be unrealistic dreamers
But if our heads weren’t in the clouds
We’d never see all that is above this world.

Body Positivity


Think of
Stretch marks as flashes of lightning
And your body is the sky; the canvas.
Crow’s feet and wrinkles are tree rings:
Proof of how long you’ve survived
Despite all that you’ve witnessed.
Acne is just a constellation of red stars
So if people make fun of you
Don’t wait for them to connect the dots.

Booty big enough to cause a solar eclipse
Or butt flatter than the second dimension
You still have the moon behind you
In all it’s glistening beauty.

Your body is not a temple
For others to visit as they please
Are you being worshipped or objectified?
Braces look like train tracks
The difference is
No one can drive over you.

The Timer

Tomorrow, next week, a month, forty years, the end—
If time doesn’t exist
Then why is everything changing?
My hips get wider, day turns to night, the coffee maker buzzes.
Campfires are lit, book pages fold and turn
Ice-cream drips down my waffle cone like mint-colored rain.

If every day is a repeat of itself
Then why are some days first kisses or art museums
While others are final exams or panic attacks?
Change, change, change:
The sound coins make when they jingle in a metal cup.
Pigtails and orange sundresses fly around ABBA songs
But now I’m in a room with fluorescent lighting and number two pencils.

Sometimes, timetable, anytime
It’s never enough.
We’re counting moments like medication doses.
If I fashion a key from insidious rock and a witch’s tooth
Will I be able to see all that’s behind future’s closed doors?
Am I wasting my time?
I’m already fading away over the years like a Polaroid picture.

Illustrations by Alejandra