Author: poetryfest

Dear you,

Five beers in
with Soco shots to match,
and you stumble
to the dive bar
karaoke machine
to sing “Strokin’,”
heedless of key or rhythm
for the seventh week in a row.

A transwoman
defending immigrants in court,
and your wife worries
the target on your back couldn’t be bigger,
but you keep writing
articles, press releases,
posts on social media,
writing anywhere to tell people
about human beings
demonized for political gain,
for political games.

The first three souffles
fall in the oven,
with each one
so too falls part of your confidence,
but nevertheless,
you persist,
and nothing
has been as delicious
as the fourth souffle,
standing proud
and triumphant
as you pull it from the oven.

Green hair dye
and magic marker sign
run in the rain
as you stand beside College Avenue
still protesting everything wrong with the world
as car horns voice their
anger or agreement.

Yarn dances across
the end of
your crochet hook
turning a ball of wool
into curtains for a new house,
this stitch experimental,
the first time you’ve tried it,
and with each completed row
you hold out
the ever-growing panel
before a judicial eye
making sure
it meets standards.

Resisting the urge
to call your child every day
and ask if they’ve seen
the news
only heightens your anxiety.
You know they’ve paused watching news,
Because it’s hard enough
being trans in
America
today
without doom scrolling
or binge watching.

I return to poetry
after fifteen years
after a lifetime
because I demand
that the world be beautiful
and I demand of myself
that I do what I can
to make it so.

Dear you,
this poem is
my love letter to you.

She charged me
A dollar to pee.
Gracias.

Saying adios
To a ninety-year-old man
Se rompe the heart

He is handsome,
My grandson, he says,
Meeting his grandson

Adios hurts
Dead by next January
We have three pictures.

Have you ever wondered who made your clothes?
Where they come from, how they get to the store?
At the good ol’ swap meet you can find imposter designers from all over the world.
Santa Fe Springs Swap Meet was my sister and I’s playground.
It was a tradition in our family to visit at least once a month,
almost weekly during the summer.
Mom and Dad would sip their Micheladas from enormous cups
my hands couldn’t even wrap around.
I remember the beer line always being long,
watching the Cover Band of the night to pass time.
When I say the good ol’ Santa Fe Springs Swap Meet,
I mean the Santa Fe Springs Swap meet.
If you’re from L.A. the Santee Alley
and swap meets are embedded within our culture.
You can find anything from delectable desserts,
down to designer handbags.
La señoras will say it’s designer,
but the natives know.
You see,
swap meets mean something to us.
It’s where families gather, memories are made.
Meals and items are purchased at such a low value.
Memories that can never be replaced
remain without a price tag.
That
is what makes the
Good Ol’ Sante Fe Springs Swap Meet
so good to our families.

What do you do with a broken clock?
Throwing it away is killing time.
And I’ve had enough of that
No matter what I do, time is always moving forward.

Is it TikTok or tick and tock
Can you talk with your broken clock?
Maybe it will listen
If we burst its bubble.

Can I live with this broken clock
Residing rent free on my mantlepiece
I give it a glance and I disagree
But it never looks at me

How would Dali see my broken clock
Let it melt and reform above the flames
Swirling all the colors into gray
Floating into the smoke away.

Even with my broken clock
I can find just two agreements
And must remember
Even broken
This clock is correct
Twice a day.

I suffered.
They suffered.

I broke.
I broke them.

I gave life.
I took life.

With every drop of blood
that lit my eyes,
my soul was purified.

Minutes remained
before they would claim me.
I had chosen
to be caught.

The people
beyond these prison bars
are weary,
so very weary.

The time has come
to step into my kingdom.

Now, and forever ;
Death wins.

My bag tucked under my arm, eyes on my feet,
I gripped my palms, dug my nails to distract my pain as I strode towards my apartment.
It looked like I had a purpose,
but I was just fighting time.
I passed the hallway and greeted my neighbours with a terse but polite smile.
I adjusted the crinkle in my smile
to mask the tears boiling in my chest, threatening to spill.
The short hallway suddenly seemed a mile long.
A single bedroom of 24 metre square, with one bed and toilet- student room.
It had all I required at that moment,
privacy and a mirror.

I barely made it three steps—I could have just walked five anyway, it is a small room—
and collapsed to the floor.
Tears poured freely, uncontrollably,
as one hand clutched the arm of a chair and the other searched the ground for balance.
I sobbed until my lungs ached, until breath itself felt impossible.

With my face inches from the floor,
tears gathered into a trembling puddle.
My warm breath bounced back against my skin,

I wrapped my arms around myself,
tight, desperate—trying to replicate a warm embrace.
Someone’s, anyone’s
I rocked back and forth,
a rhythm as old as grief.

When the sobs dulled into hiccups,
I lifted my eyes.
There, in the mirror,
my reflection swam behind glass—distorted, exhausted.
The dim, warm light cast shadows beneath my eyes,
deepening the bruises life had left behind.

Then I saw it:
a hand in the mirror,
softly wiping tears from my cheeks, catching the snot without shame.
It moved without judgment, without pause.
From cheek to chest and back again,
like clockwork.

And I watched—
just as I have for the past twenty years—
as that hand made space for my sorrow,
and stayed.

It was my hand. My own strength, my own support.
I brushed away my tears, again and again,
propping myself up with hands that never gave up.
As I gazed into the mirror, wiping away yet another wave of tears,
I saw my reflection—not just a face, but a companion.
I imagined splitting myself in two,
and the version in the glass reached for me.
It consoled me, tried to mend what it never broke.
It quieted the storm inside me,
talked me down when I wanted to leave everything behind.

I owe my life to that reflection,
to the hands in the mirror that kept lifting me.
I owe it everything—for twenty years of wiping tears
no one else ever saw

I watched cancer
chew my neighbor
like a stray dog
worrying a lone bone.
It stripped him hollow,
left him light as dust.

When he could work,
he carried fruit,
tore flowers by the root
for the yards he served.
Now my grief grows rough,
callused where his hand once passed a peach.

Near death,
he cried of heat.
I fanned him,
as if I could keep hell out
as if the wind in my wrist
could scare off the dark.
But grief has no mercy,
only lessons,
and I keep learning
this is not about m

Friends come and friends go
But you remain my constant
Faithful, loyal, foe.

you used to whisper to me
in stoop slang and bachata basslines,
kiss my cheek with corner store breath –
hot beef patties, papitas, a dollar Arizona.

you’d walk me past block parties
where the speakers cracked from joy,
and the aunties sang louder than the music.

your hands were rough –
but they knew my curves,
my story,
my roots.

but now,
your voice got quieter.
real estate signs stutter
where murals used to speak.

you wear button-ups now — ironed crisp,
smell like rosemary and rent hikes.
your laugh don’t echo
off bricks no more.
it gets lost
somewhere between the wine bar
and that dog park
you said wasn’t for us,
but now you walk through like you forgot.

when did you stop calling me “mami”?
start saying “ma’am”?
when did you trade timbs for toms,
cafecito for cold brew,
“you good?”
for
“you’re trespassing”?

i loved you when you were loud,
when you cursed and prayed in the same breath,
when your shoes had scuffs
and your hair still smelled like shea butter and sweat.
now you slicked it back — forgetful.
i see you in Whole Foods windows
with your new girls —
their yoga mats, their green juices,
their way of looking at me
like i don’t belong
in the place that built me.

you changed, Harlem,
and not in the way lovers grow —
but in the way dreams get flipped for profit.

still,
i walk your blocks like a jilted bride,
tracing memories
where laundromats used to hum
and grandma’s gospel broke morning silence.

you once held me
like a secret.
now
you just walk by.

Aug 18 2025, by HL Tsui

I am wind and you are fire.
Together we come to form a pyre
A blazing tower
Whom knows no height.
Perhaps a sun, who lights even the night.
Under such an infallible power,
Always remember:
I am wind,
And you are fire.

Together we are a cleansing flame,
Cleansing each other of unbeknownst pain.

Now our worlds,
Pure, light, and free,
I, gust, may now sow new breathing seeds.
In these seeds sprout about new power
That is the power
Of the great lily flowers.
A source of joy,
A source of food,
A source of power,
And all that’s good.

A lily bestowed upon you,
Blooming,
Time passes,
She droops then wilts,
You step in,
Fire,
Destroy and renew.

Thus, the cycle begins again,
Wind and fire return to spin,
Breathing life into motion,
I’ll always remember us as fire and wind.

I am wind and you are fire,
Myself unto you,
Yourself unto me.
Our thoughts, our hearts, let us dance and be free.
Free to be you,
Free to be me.

In these whirling winds of blazing fire,
It is about you, and never ‘bout me.