Letters to Ethan 4

Dear Ethan

I arrived to Corpus in the Fall.

Beatiful seaside coastline.

Fresh soaring whirling wind.

Summer sun softened by a winter’s kiss. 

i was enticed to stay by that wondrous Autumn.

I first lived through the winter.

The nipping cold that surrounds the cheeks of my face.

Crackling, sizzling, roasting heat of a welcomed fire.

The chilly air that fills my lungs like water in the dark gulf bay.

I am awakened by the boisterous Spring.

Lillies, bonnets, clovers, mushrooms and poppies

Blooming despite knowing what is to come.

Nature luscious and resilient.

Summer, oh Summer, of Corpus Christi…

How you beat me down before I can acknowledge your start.

Crisp waves in days and warm surf’s at night.

Sand carried in the wind to meet new tides.

Five Seasons too much?,


Letters to Ethan 3

Dear Ethan,

The city zooms back in forth in this day and I stand by the wayside watching it go by. 

Does the city still not love me? 

Time and space and darkness and light and on and on I can see follow my ever waking life. 

Along the winding roads and the bustling cityscape I feel a shadow looming over me. 

Over my thoughts. 

Over my heart. 

Over my Corpus. (Not my Corpus. Never my Corpus.) 

The corner of my life is still a blur to those around me that do not notice yet how I have become apart of it. 

I take form in a city that does not know me, yet I know it dearly. 

I’ve known it from visiting often in childhood. 

From spending the day in teenhood. 

From vacationing in young adulthood. 

I spent my time in the background hoping to become a part of it… 

And yet when I finally made it possible, my heart was no longer in it. 

No  longer in my Corpus. (Not my Corpus. Never my Corpus.)

Forever No More,


Letters to Ethan 2

Dear Ethan,

I’m not sure why, but I find myself doodling snails on my margins when my thoughts escape me. 

I’m baffled, but the rational side of my mind always finds a way to explain my musings.

 An endless spiral that I want to escape from; the longer it grows the more my fears shriek! 

This endless curve of road drag me down and down and when I think I’m about to jump, the pencil turns into something unexpected. 

The head of the snail forms and I am baffled once more. Could the head represent the randomness of life? 

Or am I still trapped in the spiral? 

A spiral much like a whirlpool against the tide.

The ocean of Corpus Christi has many dangers; yet it is still a place I long to return to near the days end. 

Can Corpus be called a sleeping fishing hamlet? 

I think it so, quite often. Is Corpus sleeping? 

When it turns days so busy and focused I don’t know how it does. 

Oh Corpus, beautiful and cold, how you baffle me…

Swirling In It, 


Letters to Ethan 1

Dear Ethan,

Where I am at life right now, could be described as divided. 

This will mark a little over a year since I’ve moved to Corpus Christi and I still don’t know if I will describe myself as a resident. 

I’ve kept my mailing address as my hometown, but with my newest apartment being a more permanent choice to live in, I’ve run out of reasons to not change that.

I can never say I will move back to Edinburg. 

The thought of it sends dread into my veins and a death like fog over my heart. 

I can never return to where I grew up as a resident… 

But try as I might, I do not feel like I belong to Corpus Christi. 

It’s as if the city itself rejects me and I do not want to know why. 

I am more alone than ever, yet I still feel free from all that I’ve left behind…

Lost in thought, 


By Any Other Name

Kamia is me. 

This is the name I have chosen for myself. 

It is a name I’ve derived from a flower;

 A flower that is endless symmetry. 

Camellias are a form of perfection;

A perfection I can aspire to achieve.

But unlike a Camellia flower

 – that is beautiful in its memorizing pattern – 

Kamia pales in between. 

Yet it is a name I’ve associated for myself.

 I am Kamia. 

I am an imperfect flower.

 I would never change for anything else. 


Over the years of growing up, I’ve seen my 

     grandmother work on her garden.

Plant flowers,

Bedded grass,

Laid out brickwork for a pathway,

Created arches out of the vines encasing the


Tame bushes and much more. 

She’ll convince my grandfather that they would

      like a new pathway around the house

and they needed to gather supplies for cement. 

She would add a raised bed to showcase the 

      more delicate flora. 

It was a garden that I can get lost in. 

Some place where a can have a nook 

to separate me from the rest of the world.

A place I could curl up with a good book. 

Maybe even a small fountain or coop where

     outdoor pet could be kept. 

Would the pets be lazy and sleep in the bushes?

How much work and money goes into planning 

     the perfect garden?

There was so much she had done to improve 

      the garden.

I would wonder when that would be enough. 

To this day she still works on that garden…

Untitled Ekphrastic Poem

My beloved opposite…

Why does your heart race?

So fast within my body.

That was once yours.

You were so young.

So full of hopes and dreams.

So naive…

This world ate you up…

I see fragments of you…

Bits and pieces everywhere.

A name on my things…

That name is not mine.

I must look to the light.

And make peace with myself.

You must go to your past.

In the world of ever-shine.

I must leave that world.

The past is behind me.

Forever away.

Even my family.

I shall walk this world…

And clean up your mess…

I am the new you,

And I’m here to stay.


The latching rubs against the steel 

as it stubbornly tries to keep it’s grip. 

It comes off with a pop almost no ear can hear. 

Place it on the counter, 

it’s moment to come is not yet. 

Jab the steel beam into the scar of the soft flesh. 

Inside it may poke and prod against closed skin 

before finding the hole on the other side. 

Breaking free of skin the steel beam gleams in 

the open air, before being smothered again by 

the rubber latching. 

It hangs limply onto the soft flesh it was placed on. 

Another latching is waiting it’s turn on the table as 

its own metal partner finds it mark in the ear. 

When the two meet again, they shall be ready 

to catch the attention of others around them. 

It is picked up, carefully, to not be dropped before 

coming face to face with it’s own steel beam. 

Clinging on with a gentle kiss, never wanting to come

 loose again.

Seashell Necklace

My grandfather’s house was built for his grandchildren. Many of us started our lives there. We lived in every room from one point in time to another. When I was to start middle school, I was staying in my grandparents’ room. It caught my eye the first night.

If it came from a beach, I wouldn’t know which. If it came from the ocean, I wouldn’t doubt it. If it came… but it didn’t. I found it. In my grandmother’s jewelry box. She didn’t give it to me yet.

I took it to school. I was without family for the first time. I needed a reminder of them. I kept it all through sixth grade year. Seventh grade year. Eight grade year. 

After years of treasuring the necklace, my bubbling guilt had finally reached the top. I showed my grandma the necklace. She laughed and said she knew it was still in the family. The necklace was mine. The necklace is mine. 

My grandfather’s house was built for his grandchildren… and so was everything in it.