Those who are born cicadas die singing

It is said that
those who are born cicadas
die singing

So hand down
that crystalline bowl of sky

Let us rattle our hearts
in its hollow shell

In the morning,
all we’ll remember
is how we trailed our fingers
along its edge
and set its lip singing

See how the red cheek
of the cashew
the purple banana blossom
even the smallest knuckle of fruit
in the canopy
hook onto that shivering stroke

So hand down the wheels of heaven
Let us clink like pebbles
from spoke to spoke

Let us rise
with the stink
of the porcupines

Let us rise
from under fallen leaves


We Regret That You Loved Diego

Photo by Luis Vidal on Unsplash

With the trampling of our dappled-blue,
our fused and half-formed legs

With our dark eyes,
plum-escent, big and big

our lashes,
plume-like and long

with the comet-trains of our horns —
how they swerve
mid-way through their course from our skulls

with the near-convergence of two graphite cloves
in each of our fragrant hooves

We, the Equinoxen —
Equinoxen would eat even
the palest sheaves of cabbage
from your hands

But what we grapple for
with our prehensile tongues,
slab-like and blank,

past your hands,
past the fine knobs of your wrists,

the ochre night-spigot
of your heart,

Originally published to on May 23, 2019

Photo by Nathan Sharp

We arrived in Uyuni, in the province of Daniel Campos de Potosí, Bolivia, a week before Christmas. As we rode into town, we saw soldiers in olive uniforms stringing garlands of spray-painted plastic soda bottles from the top of a flag pole. Before nightfall, an up-cycled Christmas tree stood twinkling in the main square. Nearby, a nativity creche made of salt bricks was also erected, and we looked on as local families knelt inside to take selfies with their mobile phones.

In the evening we found a sleepy pizza joint where we…

Originally published at on May 9, 2018

Photo by Nathan Sharp

We’re in Bogotá now, having loaded Horus onto a moving truck and shipped him here from Cartagena, battered fly wheel and all jangling under ropes and a wool blanket. Our lives are looking rather different than they did a month ago. We shower and launder regularly; we live in a perpetual climate of about 58 degrees; we no longer share outdoor bathrooms with endless parades of strangers. Our apartment came furnished with a microwave and rice cooker. Perhaps the most notable difference is that we have…drumroll please…wait for it…CITY-WIDE POTABLE TAP WATER…

Originally published to on February 20, 2018.

Photo by Diana Juárez

We left Mexico last week and crossed into Guatemala via the Cuahtémoc, Mexico — Mesilla, Guatemala border. Certain experiences come to mind when I reflect on our three-and-a-half months in Mexico — the gothic and baroque fantasyland churches of San Miguel and Morelia and Coyoacán and Cholula at Christmas time, covered in tinsel and glaring poinsettias and felted drugstore stockings. The Sanctuario de Tontzíntla, where wall space down to the last inch swirled with the stucco reliefs of peyote flowers, morning glories, maíz, saints, twisting columns of red and blue signifying the…

DIANA Juarez

Chronic resting happy face. Find me at

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