All posts filed under: Poetry

From The Streets Below

I’m hit by a wave of irony Walking the streets of Columbia Heights, D.C. There sits a President and administration, Not more than a 15 minute drive from here, Doing everything in their power To target immigrants When the landscape of their own backyard Blossoms, sustained by the life force Of those they deem to persecute. Breathing in deep, I’m hit by the aroma of sizzling Mexican dishes, Burgers no more. My ears perk up By the clicking and popping Of tall benign Africans Shooting the breeze in their native tongue, No longer common The smooth canter Of that oh so American Way of speaking. I steer clear off the path Of young Hispanics on bikes Rushing to get the day’s Paper chasing done. I breathe deep with them, Catching the fresh scent, Of that American pie, The young and the old immigrants, Waiting patiently around the table, To carve out our fair share Of the American dream. ~~ In the poet’s own words:

She/They

Written by: Janit Von Saechao In pristine-white Portland, I am seen as progressive for being a person with brown skin yet privy to this piece of my identity. What they don’t know is that when I say, “My name is Janit Saechao and my pronouns are she/they.” I mean She, as in We We, the ones assigned women while given no words for otherwise. We, as in all the non-men who have wondered which is the better way to survive– to silence ourselves for centuries of tradition or to speak our truths and risk our lives. They, as in Us They, as in those who came before me. They, as in all my ancestors who listened to Their own hearts and trusted Their own beings. They are my chain smoking Khmu aunties in Laos who puff tobacco through hand rolled cigarettes, laughing on the sides of dusty Luang Prabang roads at the colonizers with cameras who won’t leave Them alone. They are my single Mien femmes in America making more money than all the men …