Two poems by Karen Gonzalez-Videla
Erasure of a Teenage Daughter’s Letter to Her Deported Mother
It’s been a long time since .
I think how long
photo album we made that summer.
Do you the copy I gave you?
Or did they take it too? I still have mine.
some of are torn --
I couldn’t stop shaking hands from
the afternoon you left.
One photo is whole — we hold hands
at the peak of that North Carolina mountain, out of breath
and trembling; wind shoves our clothes against skin, but
we ground our feet on soil beneath us and
refuse to fall. I wonder if we could have .
Maybe you wouldn’t other side
of a man-made border. Maybe I wouldn’t vomit
questions on crumpled paper:
Did the air different when you crossed ?
Did you feel future , ,
and slip out of your hands?
Did you even notice your foot crossed south?
Are you less an outsider back there?
Or still a traitor that tried
Rift of Red and Rojo
I’m stuck in a rift between
two stars. One red,
the other rojo. They blind
me. I need to close my eyes.
Won’t they dim a little?
This reversed vacuum
spits out held-in polvo. My light dims,
there’s too much dust.
The stars shine brighter now.
Dos tres cinco siete.
I was red for
three six seven years but
my star grew caliente,
switched to rojo but
my tongue tripped at the
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Forgive me, for
“rat” and “rata” sound
One of you should come get me,
claim me, take me.
I swear I’m a star.
Karen Gonzalez-Videla is an undergraduate student at the University of South Florida. She is currently pursuing a Bachelor’s Degree in Psychology and Creative Writing, and she loves combining these two passions in her fiction. Although she writes about a variety of subjects, she focuses mostly on the immigrant experience and the exploration of one’s womanhood. She has upcoming work at Sidereal Magazine, Ghost Parachute, and Vita Brevis Press.