CITY COLLEGE STUDENTS

 

I DON’T ALWAYS DO RIGHT 
 
To be aware is to be alive 
To be aware is to what  
Be alive 
To be aware is to what 
Be alive 
 
Morning mantras with the little humans are usually a mix of “be aware”,  
“be kind”, “be you”  
interrupted with many stops and several “did you hear me?”  
Followed with my usual just “forget it” 
 
See I’m aware of my guilt  
I see my wrong doings 
I don’t always do right 
I don’t always do right 
 
I can't dwell on those times  
to be aware is to be alive 
To dwell on these times will cause everything to stop 
I can't be the one responsible for pushing the pause button on my own life  
SO I don't  
 
I don’t always do right though 
Neither does anyone else  
Truth is the many “wrong doers” are pushed to a corner  
Where the world has deemed to be  
anywhere the sun shines brighter.  
 
It began from when they invaded us 
It continued far too long 
Still struggling to get out the yard  
 
Reality is, the real threat is our spirit 
Our spirit shines bright from the many years under the sun 
They used tactics we’ve now been able to identify 
But they move in ways to box us in.  
Boxed us into a place they thought they could finally contain us 
 
Boxed in, we grew 

Grew in numbers, grew in faith  
Grew in love, grew in pure hate 
Grew out of their hate 
Grew despite their hate 
Grew. Just how the sun intended 
 
The brighter the sun  
The warmer the rays feel 
The reality of the earth is told through the sun 
It shines warms and helps with the growth of every living thing  
 
But see that's it 
We aren't things 
Things to take because you can 
Things to dispense at your discretion 
Things to beat on to release some stress 
Things to control because of your lack of control 
Things to mindfuck because you can’t grasp how truly amazing we are 
Things.  
Period. 
 
The sun must be the one true thing that helped while their body ached  
Astonishing really 
To work the land and still find hope 
To take an unnecessary beating to ensure your offspring doesn't know the pain 
To watch the earth give you what it needs and embrace the strength within 
By having the sunshine positive rays that sung songs of humanity 
 
I don’t always do right  
But being aware of the past realities brings me that much closer to the peace 
seldom obtain  
I don’t always do right  
But the seeds that grew from the sun and my hands together lets me know it'll be 
alright 
The sun must  have done just that for them 
 
For the many things I claim to be wrong for 
is nothing compared to the realities  
Of those who couldn't appreciate the sun  
the ones who couldn't see  
the sun didn't show them the true beauty of things 
They couldn’t see the beauty in the sun  

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See, I said to be aware is to be alive 
So why isn't everyone aware 
If everyone’s alive 
Well that's simple 
You’re not living 
 
The inequalities in society stems from a bigger and larger broken system  
but it truly resonates with in our own home 
 
See I’m aware 
I don’t always do right 
But by them I swear to  
So you can understand why it’s wrong to 
To just say “forget it”  
 
“Mommy I want to look like you” 
I give her the sweetest smile my broken soul can spew 
This little chocolate human I named after an explosion of stars 
My own supernova is the exact reason why  
the realities of our past should never be forgotten 
Any chance given I remind her of her beauty 
Any chance I remind her that mommy with her fair skin still has roots darker then 
her  
And any chance I can I remind them that the Sun was the food for our ancestors 
Because any chance given we are reminded of where we stand  
Do we stand?  
Can we stand?  
No. 
Any chance given we are reminded where to stand in society 
So any chance I can take to just remind people 
Remind them of their power 
Remind them of the sun 
 
Sound so vast 
But that’s exactly what the sun is 
Vast 
 
After a hard day 
Sitting anywhere the sun shines seems to almost  
Almost lift it all away 
Imagine how gloomy rainy days really were 
 
I'll assume those were the days their realities didn't seem real 

The days they let nature wash away 
Wash any sorrows the sun beautifully masked 
 
Air is free 
Sun is handed out 
The ground is a privilege 
That's what we are reminded of 
Day in and day out  
But our ancestors built this land 
I don't do always do right 
 

Ana Alvarez

 
A FOREST OF MOTHS 
 
A horde of moths alight on a rotted window-sill in June  
A solemn congregation to a grim purpose which they attend to with haste  
Their beating wings cast an incessant shadow on the dampened floor  
The foliage of their wings so dense and furious as not to permit light from 
penetrating hallowed halls  
Deep in the bowels of the imposing house a single breath makes the curtains stir  
Puzzling eyes and clawing hands are turned away by their own imaginings  
Prevented from becoming witness to the dread rituals that occur just inside the 
door. 
 

Yuri Ana

 
IN QUARANTINE, I REFLECT ON THE DEATH OF ASLAN   
 
I wake early and sad, I drink iced tea and take my vitamin C.  
I call my mom, I call my cousin, I call my sister.  
I worry about school, I worry about my failed friendships.  
I send an email to an old friend, I don’t send a DM to an ex-crush.  
 
I struggle with anxiety so I’m anxious. That’s what my therapist says.  
Time to rest, time to reflect, that’s what my father says,  
But there is so much to do and homework to be done.  
My thoughts don’t stop, my head feels like it’s spinning around.  
Time to embrace the virtue of honesty, the price of vulnerability again, after.  

The window shows children playing around freely and lost in pure wonder.  
As adults, we forget about it and focus on other things that make us worry.  
These children are free to imagine and dream.  
They imagine a magical world and are free to dream big.  
If I try to remember what it was like, childhood, a period of growth where  
I felt alive as a butterfly. However, a few years later, I experienced the pain  
of rejection.  
If I try, I see the wardrobe that led the Pevensie kids to Narnia.  
Big coats, that once removed, opened the pathway to a snowy land.  
They didn’t know they were going to encounter Aslan, the Lion King of Narnia.  
 
I love to isolate, I tell my therapist. She says, I do it to protect myself.  
I agree I want my childhood back, where I read fairy tales and spent time  
with my family.  
Who is really responsible for the death of Aslan?  
Someone said it was Jadis, the White Witch. Perhaps Edmund.  
In reality, Aslan offered himself as a sacrifice. It was all for love.  
But I feel anxious and I struggle with anxiety. I wrestle with my anxious thoughts.  
And if honesty is a virtue, and vulnerability has to be embraced,  
Then the death and resurrection of Aslan makes even more sense.  
And if the Witch knew that Aslan’s sacrifice would save Narnia,  
She wouldn’t have killed him in the first place.  
Perhaps, this story reminds me of my childhood.  
Where I read fairy tales and spent time with my family.  
 

Melanie Bedoya

 
A FAINT DREAM 
Coffee and cake 
Lemon water and a pastry 
Cola and gummies 
A sunny day, but partly cloudy 
The breeze, a cover of the coming night 
My eyes heavy, I smile 
because today feels like one of those days 
you find in fairy tales. 
Magic, but you can't list the reason. 
Today, I fall asleep with stained teeth 
hidden behind two curled lips. 
The moon watches over me 

and I drift off to sleep 
as if no pain has ever come to me 
because for a moment 
for a day 
I forgot there was any hardship. 
For a day, the breeze took me away 
and brought me to a land 
that can only belong in dreams. 
 

Dedipta Bhattacharjee

 
WAVES OF WARMNESS 
 
After months of not seeing my friends,  
there they were.  
A moment I longed for so long.  
The moment for us to finally be together.  
Dark brown trees with pink flowers,  
falling down as the warm wind blows.  
The wave of happiness as I see them,  
waiting for me because as usual I’m late.  
Their beautiful faces and bright personalities, 
How can I not feel warm at that sight?  
A simple picnic was planned. 
Delicious soul food: 
Mac and cheese, baked candied yams, and the list goes on 
but it’ll make you hungry so, I’ll stop.  
Nostalgic music that brings us together,  
playing in the background as we bond. 
Card games that I always suck at,  
waiting to be played.  
See if I was a sore loser, that would have been an issue.  
Our phones away, it’s like they didn’t exist in the moment. 
Nothing existed in the moment, just us.  
So simple yet to me it was so much more.  
It was like a safe haven. 
All worries were not welcomed.  
No negative vibes were found.  
I can’t explain this feeling with just one word.  
If you’re in the company of those you love,  
then you know.  

But I’ll say this,  
waves of warmness.

 

Yesenia Bonilla

 
UNTITLED 
 
Years and years of comfort provided  
All the while feeling slightly one sided  
 
I have a talent for getting swept away  
And never thought to ask if that was okay  
 
So when I ask you to tell me about your dreams  
You only think through how it seems  
 
I should have learned to let it go,  
To love the life you’ll never know  
 
Rather 
I was always hoping if only so  
 

Taken out of the shallow depths where you reside  
I have nothing left to change or hide  
 
Guess now I know how to feel defeat  
Like feeling cold in that summer heat  
 
Though there's no reason why, and no belief  
I somehow find immense relief  
 
Even just looking at how much I thought I knew  
If a lie is told enough it could become true  
 
However  
There are worse matters to be attended to

 

Liam Brophy

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HOW WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE THE OUTSIDER LOOKING IN? 
 
Through my eyes,  
my skin?  
Would you like to walk the same streets 
along with my feet? 
Try to analyze me 
through the dialect I speak? 
Why the word ‘YER’ utters from my lips 
with pride? 
 
I know you don’t understand me. 
How could you? 
I’m from the borough of the forgotten, 
rotten, and belittled:  
 
The Boogie Down. 
The city of hip hop.  
The borough founded on the backs of poor black mothers,  
the matriarchs. 
The barrio founded on food stamps  
and public assistance. 
The buildings  
and alleyways that serve as homes  
to the street rats,  
los desamparados,  
and those hungry for more  
than the scraps left on the floor. 
 
This borough of the forgotten, 
this borough of the rotten  
this land of the belittled  
is our home. 
And we’re hungry for more:  
we want peace.  
We no longer want to be martyrs to your class war. 
 

Luz Cepedes

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TITAN 
 
Of love and prayer, unrealistic once seemed; 
A literal labor of love so deemed. 

Of true divine the seed was so planted. 
And you moved me, a feeling enchanted.  
Your arrival left a permanent stitch.  
An alarm you rang of the perfect pitch.  
Your very existence makes me less cold, 
Infectious smile swaddled skin honey gold. 
Organic tears of bliss I wildly weep,  
In awe as I watch my beloved sleep.     
Capsized in streams fresh milk, peony groves, 
Perfect you are ten finger and ten toes.  
 

Tulani Chinnery

 
TO THE REPUBLIC 
 
Brick 
by brick 
it rises, this wall 
a patriotic duty, to keep out the enemy 
it is manifest destiny.  
The boundaries are blurry at times  
cannot tell the right side of Border Lines.  
 
Brick  
by brick  
it rises, this wall 
a race divides and devours 
a privileged puppet preaches  
citizens pawns in a game  
still, resistance persists.  
 
For which it stands on stacked treasures  
built on brown backs, hands over hearts 
red white and blue mingle in a bruise, united  
one nation, in cages, the liberty, it cannot see  
it rises, this wall 
brick  
by brick. 
 

Christina Cintron

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OUR COLLAPSE, IN QUARANTINE 
 
I wake up to screaming. 
Both inside my head, and outside. 
We are coming apart at the seams, you and me, 
And I’m sorry for that. 
I want to be a pillow for you. 
I want to take the pressure, and bounce back. 
Fluffy, and ready to protect with my softness against the hard. 
I wake up to screaming and I think, 
‘Today is the day I will keep the smile on my face.’ 
My mouth kept closed by my teeth, unless I need to speak 
In pleasantries, 
Positivity all around, 
For we are falling apart, you and me. 
Your legs have weakened from 
All this time sitting on the couch, 
And they are not strong enough to hold you any longer. 
But me, 
I hear the screaming, I do. 
But I have also been walking. 
I have been riding my bike. 
I have been dancing alone in my room at night. 
My legs, they have held onto their muscles. 
And I will carry you across my shoulder, 
Just you and me. 
Because the world is coming apart at the seams. 
She is finally burning down. 
And I promise, 
I will carry you from the flames, 
And into the new. 
 

Rina Defrancesco

 

A NIGHT OF DETAINMENT  

They 
Ran after me on the street, 
yelling “Catch her, get her!” 
Trying to trap me, 
Trying to grab me from the sidewalk. Like a scared squirrel scurrying, 

a wild animal escaping hunters, 
I RAN.  

I RAN. 
Trying to catch a cab to save myself From dangerous ignorance, 
From people not inquisitive enough To investigate my true condition. 
I RAN, but was captured.  

Detained indefinitely, 
Interrogated like a criminal, 
watching a poor cuckoo pace around, 
agitated and calling for her lithium. 
She stared down the nurses 
negligently attending to their screens, 
gazing through the glass walls that protected them,  
she dragged her hands up and down the panes,  
leaving streaks and fingertip impressions. 
I watched this poor woman 
out of her mind 
be paid no mind 
by people supposed to care. 
I kept composure as medical strangers 
then pried me open with intimate questions 
about my private self that 
I was forced to answer 
to be set free 
before the next day’s school-day started. 
Eleven and a half hours away. 
I kept my strength, 
and asserted my rights 
against their pressures 
to take blood. 
“I have not chosen you to treat me.” 
Finally, they freed me by the morning. 
I got dressed and went to teach class.  
 

Billie DeMott

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ODE TO THE DOMINICAN REPUBLIC 
 
The land of merengue and bachata,  
drums beating as you exit Las Americas.  
Dancing to the sound of tipico, while savoring  
a cold bubbly Presidente. The capital Santo Domingo,  
full of bright lights in El Malecon. Beautiful cobblestones  
in the historical Zona Colonial, the streets of El Conde  
full of tourists, restaurants and shops. Heading to the beach  
Boca Chica, oh the smell of fried fish. Swimming in crystal  
clear water, indulging the heat of the sun. Swinging on  
the hammock, under the tall palm tree. Sipping on  
a sweet coconut, and gasping the breeze of the sky.  
Visiting the nature of El Campo, golden mangoes  
falling off the trees. Waking up to the singing  
of roosters, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.  
Eating green ripe avocados for breakfast with mangu,  
for lunch with rice and beans, for dinner with yuca and salami.  
Children running around barefoot, soaking in the pouring rain.  
Playing baseball with a stick, and a huge smile on their face.  
Fascinating provinces and hotels, Casa de Campo  
in La Romana, Ocean World in Puerto Plata, Sublime in Samana.  
The land of merengue and bachata. Not just a country,  
it’s an amazing place to dance, eat, drink, and live.  
Oh Dominican Republic, you're the motherland.  
My body is in the U.S., but my heart and soul  
belongs to you. Republica Dominicana, lo tiene todo!

 

Erika Espinal

 
THANKSGIVING   
 
Because of you I always shred the carrots 
Down to nothing. 
When the grater scrapes my finger,  
I know it's finished. 
Like my brother's life on Friday night 
Blood and saccharin poured into the bowl, 
It is your love in overdrive. 
But you're more brown sugar than saccharin. 
Closer to the heart, loyal to the soil, 

Slow and gradual like molasses. 
From the icing of the superficial, 
To the moist center of your soul. 
The flavors tell me a story. 
 
Walnuts chopped to smithereens. 
The tough days become the smoothest, 
When you snake your words  
Down the drain of my ear. 
It all becomes so clear, 
That I know half  
Of what you know. 
You've lived lifetimes, 
While I've lived chapters. 
Your heart slips off your sleeve,  
And down your hand. 
Dripping, cream, careful. 
Every slice hugs me ocean deep.  
 

Jada Gordon

 
SHE RHYTHM SWEET 
 
The drum is definitely a woman, 
Head to the sky. 
Hair free, 
Hips free, 
Untethered to normalcy, 
She is the 
boom
! 
She is the 'o' of the mouth when you "wow." 
She is the wow. 
She is now. 
Then 
Later  
Soon 
Long forgotten tune, 
She is the swoon and swoop of the body when we dance. 
Move. 
Jump through the hoops of chains.  
Rain down rhythm on the changed. 
Coughing up thunder down onto moonlight, on crashing waves.  
She is a woman. 

The drum is a woman  
Proud. Loud. Unfiltered. 
Singing, writing and dancing, in the space, between languages.  
 

Sherry E.A. Hamlet

 
LOVE 
 
I speak, I speak, I speak, I speak  
Truth, I speak life  
For love  
Out of fear and concern that no one will care  
For love  
I want passion, joy, fulfillment, honor  
For love  
I want strength, prosperity, power, influence  
For love  
I am eloquent in my manners, but only numbers matter  
I pray for better days but poverty persists in its consumption  
I don’t encourage it but how could I possibly fight it  
Money in need, money underneath, that’s all anyone wants  
I speak, I speak, I speak, I speak  
Corrupted, I can’t give in  
Cause It’s for love  
I speak against it, I speak for it  
I want peace, I want justice  
In the name of love  
I want a world equal with unequal people  
For love  
I need time, I need health, I succeed in pain  
I succeed to shower hope  
If there was more love in the world perhaps empathy would rule over self-interest.

 

Assetou Kone

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THOUGHT I WAS SPECIAL, BUT I’M JUST LIKE EVERYONE 
 
I thought I was special, but I’m just like everyone else. I thought I was gonna get an 
interview for that dream job... I could’ve sworn that my resume was top notch, and 
that they would pick me, but it turned out that;  
 
I thought I was special, but I’m just like everyone else.  
 
I’ve  worked  really  hard  towards  my  dreams.  And  I’ve  only  faced  rejection,  after 
rejection, and it hurts the most because...  
 
I thought I was special, but I’m just like everyone else.  
 
I’ve felt like a failure, over and over. I wanted to be special, but  
I’m just like everyone else.  
 
They call it millennial entitlement, apparently we feel special... over everyone else. I 
remember  a  time  I  had  a  chance  to  do  something  great,  and  the  first  thing  I 
thought was:  
 
What makes me so special? I’m just like everyone else!  
 
In an overpopulated world, who really is special, And who is everyone else?  
The other night I cried because sometimes I don’t feel special, and  
I’m just existing...just like everyone else.  
 
Someone  said  to  me  there’s  a  balance  Between  feeling  special,  and  being  like 
everyone else.  
 
This one time, I wasn’t able to succeed in my own plans.  
 
I thought I was special, but I’m just like everyone else.  
 
I wanted to live in New York, but I had to pay for an overpriced tiny apartment, 
just like everyone else. I thought about living in LA, but I would be an actor  
 
...Just like everyone else.  
 
I set a goal for myself, thinking that I have something special,  
but I’m just like everyone else.  
 
I  keep  biting  my  finger  nails,  I’ve  lived  with  some  anxiety  because  I  can’t 
understand why I do I keep trying to feel special.  

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When in the end, we end up in ashes or six feet under ground,  
just like everyone else.  
 
I would really love to feel special, and be like everyone else.  
 

Jonathan Michael Mora

 
THE VOICE 
 
There were people walking around. 
Just walking, no thinking, no feelings 
With their emptiness and wholeness 
But never looking to the side. 
 
I’m paralyzed, my life suddenly takes a turn. 
I didn’t see it coming 
I saw it coming but didn’t believe my gut. 
What is reflection if it doesn’t come with action, 
What is sacrifice if it doesn’t fill your hands. 
 
Lately I just stare and stand,  
My mind gets lost in memories. 
How is it that one day you feel their warmth 
And the next day you hear their goodbyes? 
If words don’t have meaning 
How come you believe them so willingly. 
 
If there was a thinking, why isn’t there words to describe it? 
If there was a want, why isn’t there an action? 
I came a long way with full hands 
But they were emptied with lies and coldness. 
 
Now I just lay and wait. 
Seems so unfair but deserved. 
Some debts are paid in different ways. 
I read about perfect worlds 
I write about perfect people 
But I look around disappointed by my daydreaming. 
I can’t change a chapter here 
And I can’t rewrite an action or last words. 

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It feels like a book, but with a sad ending 
Maybe a horror movie with zombies and vampires. 
But wait 
Is it? 
Is it not? 
Am I real? 
Or was I created by my writer …? 
Is she putting these words in my head? 
Is this her mind speaking? 
Maybe I’m just here to serve the purpose 
The purpose of freedom through writing.  
 

Laura Mosquera

 
MORNING ROUTINE 
 
This morning I got ready to not be raped 
By laying out my makeup, putting on a new face 
Lips overlined so men won’t ask to see my smile 
I’ve already complied, and next I turn to styling my hair 
And it doesn’t really matter because a true rapist won’t be swayed 
Depending on if I have my hair in curls or a braid 
Like my hair can take rape out of a rapist’s heart 
And for my outfit I don’t even know where to start 
Why does it matter what I wear? 
A man who wants to stare will stare 
And I have no control over if today is my fate 
To be his chosen one 
The one he whistles at and expects to run 
To his feet, like a dog after a treat 
Like I’m a piece of meat, a plate to eat 
A mouth to be fed by a man who feeds women like infants 
Who are trying solid food for the first time 
Kicking and screaming with every bite 
Forcing it down until they lose their fight 
And the worst part is he might not even look like a creep 
I guess I should just avoid every single dark street 
I guess it’s my problem that I don’t wear clothes I hate 
So that my body doesn’t get mistaken for bait 
So that my body doesn’t get mistaken for something anyone can take 
Like a bite-sized snack off a free sample tray 

In a crop top or a sweat-suit I am still prey 
But my wardrobe changes my accountability 
Either way, everyday it’s my responsibility 
To stifle the desire of rapists by aiming for invisibility 
Today I got ready to not be raped, didn’t know where to start 
Didn’t know how to look to fix a rapist’s heart 
 

Eboni Porter

 
MIND A CUPCAKE  
 
This center piece of display  
Looking absolutely delightful, 
Holding me absolutely deranged.  
Planted as a decoration, 
But acknowledged as prey 
Some would call it eye candy, 
I call it a load of—  
Shatterable,  
Fracturable,  
A damn hard cold piece of clay. 
No more than a day old 
No more than a full-on tease. 
Made to seduce  
Not to devour,  
Should’ve been easier,  
Should’ve been a feast. 
I could say I hate the creator  
I could say that I’d prefer it another way  
But truth is 
Between us  
What’s a party without some mind games? 
 

Cristina Romero

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A PRAYER FOR MUMIA  

In Memory of Eric Garner and countless others 
 
How the sunset's light would slant in such a different way 
if its gold were not reflected where pools of blood still lay. 
Can you imagine, can you imagine, just for one day 
the world in which we cast off fear and grew love in its place? 
So tired, so tired. How many more black youth must be killed? 
I can't bear one more bullet ringing, choir singing, tears spilled 
Almost a year ago, to this date, I was in this same room 
I heard the verdict of George Zimmerman's trial come on the news 
I sank to the floor, pressed my face to the ground 
I felt my heart breaking but I couldn't make a sound. 
None of it makes sense, & all people can say 
"It wasn't you or yours, relax. You're not black anyway." 
It goes deeper, it goes deeper. Yes I am my brother's keeper 
and while any one of us suffers still, the price gets no cheaper 
Accidents don't exist, though you may call it fate 
Why must it take a hit close to home, or a prayer when it's too late? 
Divine intervention, we are all connected - to find you must first seek 
Every single soul is precious. We are all the company we keep. 
Amadou Diallo, we need you. Trayvon Martin, rest in peace. 
Are we destined, are we destined to watch the sands of time repeat, 
to blame each other & this system for all the violence wreaked? 
All it takes is one change, one choice, one voice to turn the other cheek 
One person's commitment to their own highest good & to the path of peace. 
If we did this together, if we did it for just one day 
gazed into another's eyes, tucked our own fears away 
regarded them as special, as pure, not as a symbol or a mistake, 
This power is in each of our hands, a new kind of sunrise to create. 
 

Megan Skelly

 
UNIFORMITY; OR, MY NAVY UNIFORM 
 
For twenty years, I existed. What does it mean to exist anyway? 
I was me, and I was not. What is being anyway? 
If you saw me, you would have wondered, maybe, why  
I almost looked the same for twenty years—outside. What is seeing anyway? 
 
Naked.  
We all look almost the same naked—outside.  

Inside, the resemblance is much greater. What is nature anyway? 
 
For twenty years, I existed, and I didn’t exist at the same time. 
You could say there was a binary quality to my existence. 
On and off, like an ignition switch. What is power anyway? 
Off and on, like a light switch. What is darkness anyway? 
 
When there were two aspects to me, of the two, you noticed only one. 
Like a magic show: now you see me, now you don’t. What is reality anyway? 
 
When in black, or white, or blue—seems kinda like a lottery, doesn’t it?— 
you saw me.  
“Translated” thus, I existed. But when I wasn’t in black, or white, or blue,  
you’d go blind. 
 
At the store, on the train, on the street,  
at the park, at the movies, at the supermarket. 
You either saw, or didn’t. 
You either noticed, or didn’t. 
Either or—never both—for twenty years. What is math anyway?  
And who was counting anyway? 
     
I counted. Got used to the counting—almost. 
I was counting. Got used to being intermittently—almost. 
For wasn’t that better than the permanence of not being? 
 
Now I always am not—to you. 
To you, I’ve been dead six years. 
Since the day  
before that mid-August day on which it would have been unlawful for me  
to shroud my naked body in my Navy uniform. 
 

Pedro Vasquez 

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