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Courtesy of the “Justice ForJeannie” Facebook page

a poem and a prayer for Jeannairy “Jeannie”…

A compilation of the media related to her case

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Rendering courtesy of Justice ForJeannie Facebook page

Who was Jeannairy “Jeannie” Dominguez and why do you keep writing about her?

She is a human being who needs justice.

The U.S. has a tolerance for domestic violence (or intimate partner violence), and her case is an all too familiar example of how current legal frameworks fail to protect victims of domestic abuse. After a former partner made multiple deaths towards Jeannie, she was gunned down inside her home on Sunday, 07/19/20.

Many details of her case, such as whether or not the suspect is in custody and the reason the PD is not cooperating with the Sheriff’s office to lead joint investigation, are unknown because the local PD has not yet…

a pantoum dedicated to justice for Jeannairy “Jeannie” Dominguez

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Photo by Arthur Rachbauer on Unsplash

Trigger warning: violence

My sister’s blood cries out to Me from the ground.
What have you done?
She walks with Me in Paradise too soon,
while the Evil One tucks you into bed, calling you his favorite.

What have you done?
He strokes your cheek, whispering in your ear
over the pillows about how you’re his favorite executioner,
and squeals how he can’t wait to meet you in Hell.

I stroke your cheek, whispering in your ear,
“Confess and repent, My child.”
The Evil One waits to meet you in Hell,
and sin crouches at your door.

Declare your sin…

an ode to Jeannairy “Jeannie” Dominguez

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Image by Nandy Del Castillo @finding.nandy, courtesy of “Justice ForJeannie” Facebook page.

How many death threats
does that man have to make
for you to protect me?
is it one
is it two
is it three

How many times
will you take a report
and bury it
with all the other paperwork
from women who haven’t died yet,
reports you’ll only browse
when the name shows up later
in a homicide case?

For how long
will he walk around free,
to plan my death?

For how long
will he stand on the sidewalk,
before walking up to my house?

How many steps will he take until he’s at my door, is it…

poem on being lost in a global consumerist cult

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Photo by Avi Richards on Unsplash

Tell me
where the mystics sit,
drinking cups of love.

Tell me why, curled up in corners,
I instead find self-adorners drafting policy,
while sipping tea and weak philosophy,
trading bills of currency and law.

How are they both the vulture and the corpse?

Your philosophers proclaim,
“In the name of
the Buyer,
and Holy Free Trade,
there is no god, but Profit,
and the Market is His Prophet.
We the People shall guard it.”

— now I see, this is why your mystics strayed

You say all deities fled this land, but you have erected another in…

poem on grandparents, diaspora, & cultural hybridity

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Photo by Nitish Meena on Unsplash

I went to your country
but you weren’t there
and neither was that
frozen image of home
wrapped up in glass like a snow globe
that you always carried around in your pocket

I searched your country through and through
I found shadows
I searched for you
I found a silhouette
I don’t know how to
recognize what I miss

That Polaroid you left behind
of a developing world
is half a century old and
already fading
Your country developed corner to corner
coloring over the black and white

I went back to the family mausoleum and of course…

poema de los abuelos, la diáspora, y la dualidad cultural

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Photo by Nitish Meena on Unsplash

Viajé a tu país
pero allí no estabas
tampoco estaba esa imagen cristalizada
de nuestra patria sellada en vidrio
como una esfera de nieve
que siempre llevabas en el bolsillo

Andaba por tu país buscandote
pero encontré sombras
Te busqué
pero encontré una silueta
No sé cómo reconocer
lo que echo de menos

La foto instantánea que me dejaste
de un mundo en desarrollo
tiene medio siglo y
ya se está destiñendo
Tu país desarrolló hasta las esquinas
pintando la escala de grises a tecnicolor

Regresé al mausoleo familiar y…

a poem on the mementos we keep hidden

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Photo by Colton Sturgeon on Unsplash

Home was just an idea I lived for

until I was old enough
to move away
and forget

a series of evictions,
repossessed cars,
and unpacked boxes.

The way I ran and
stumbled haphazardly

away from it

defined me more
than the way I lived it.

I don’t carry baggage or scars,
just a couple storage containers
in the back of my closet,

full of random childhood things.
I don’t dare open up,
lest I become her again,

that girl who put it all there in the first place.

If you enjoyed this poem, here is another one to enjoy:

Lavender Nightmares

cynical poetry and research-based personal essays | poesía y ensayos

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