About the BreakBeat Poets Series

The BreakBeat Poets series, created by Kevin Coval and Nate Marshall, is committed to work that brings the aesthetic of hip-hop practice to the page. These books are a cipher for the fresh, with an eye always to the next. We strive to center and showcase some of the most exciting voices in literature, art, and culture.

THE BREAKBEAT POETS EDITORIAL BOARD

Cofounders Kevin Coval (Creative Director) and Nate Marshall (Series Editor), Maya Marshall (Managing Editor), Safia Elhillo, Idris Goodwin, and José Olivarez

BreakBeat Poets Series titles include:

The BreakBeat Poets: New American Poetry in the Age of Hip-Hop, edited by Kevin Coval, Quraysh Ali Lansana, and Nate Marshall

This Is Modern Art: A Play, Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval

The Breakbeat Poets Vol. 2: Black Girl Magic, edited by
Mahogany L. Browne, Jamila Woods, and Idrissa Simmonds

Human Highlight, Idris Goodwin and Kevin Coval

On My Way to Liberation, H. Melt

Black Queer Hoe, Britteney Black Rose Kapri

Citizen Illegal, José Olivarez

Graphite by Patricia Frazier

The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 3: Halal if You Hear Me, edited by Fatimah Asghar and Safia Elhillo

Commando, E’mon Lauren

Build Yourself a Boat, Camonghne Felix

Milwaukee Avenue, Kevin Coval

Bloodstone Cowboy, Kara Jackson

Everything Must Go, Kevin Coval, illustrated by Langston Allston

Can I Kick It?, Idris Goodwin

The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNEXT

edited by Felicia Rose Chavez, José Olivarez, and Willie Perdomo

Too Much Midnight, by Krista Franklin

Lineage of Rain

Janel Pineda

Haymarket Books
Chicago, IL

© 2021 Janel Pineda

Published in 2021 by

Haymarket Books

P.O. Box 180165

Chicago, IL 60618

773-583-7884

www.haymarketbooks.org

info@haymarketbooks.org

ISBN: 978-1-64259-528-4

Distributed to the trade in the US through Consortium Book Sales and Distribution (www.cbsd.com) and internationally through Ingram Publisher Services International (www.ingramcontent.com).

This book was published with the generous support of Lannan Foundation and Wallace Action Fund.

Special discounts are available for bulk purchases by organizations and institutions. Please call 773-583-7884 or email info@haymarketbooks.org for more information.

Cover artwork by Kiara Aileen Machado.

Cover design by Jamie Kerry.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available.

Contents

In Another Life

I.

Rain

South Gate Fourth of July

Fifth Grade Show and Tell

How English Came to Grandma

All This to Tell You: Grandma Still Does Not Speak English

The Assessment Form Asks about My Anxiety

When the Death Squads Come

Tío Toño Is Ready to Die

When the Men Come Looking

II.

Fellowship Application

How English Came to Me

Because Papi Drove Lincolns

To the Eldest Daughter

Imagined Portrait of My Father as Architect

Before the Interview

When the Call Finally Comes

All This to Show You

Instead of Producing

& It Is Green

In Another Life

The war never happened but somehow you and I

        still exist. Like obsidian,

we know only the memory of lava

        and not the explosion that created

us. Forget the gunned-down church, the burning

        flesh, the cabbage soup.

There is no bus. There is no border. There is no blood.

        There are

only sweet corn fields and mango skins. The turquoise

        house and clotheslines.
A heaping plate of pasteles and curtido waiting to be

        disappeared into our bellies.

In this life, our people are not things of silences

        but whole worlds bursting

into breath. Everywhere, there are children. Playing

        freely, clothed and clean.

Mozote does not mean massacre and flowers bloom

        in every place shoes are
left behind. My name still means truth, this time

        in a language my mouth recognizes,

in a language I know how to speak. My grandmother is

        still a storyteller although I am
not a poet. In this life, I do not have to be. This poem

        somehow still exists. It is told

in my mother’s voice and she makes hurt dissolve like honey

        in hot water, manzanilla
warming the throat. You and I do not find each other

        on another continent, grasping

at each other’s necks in search of home. We meet in a mercado,

        my arms overflowing
with mamey and anonas, and together we wash them

        in riverwater. We watch sunset fall over

a land we call our own and do not fear its taking.

        I bite into the fruit, mouth sucking

seed from substance, pulling its veins from between my teeth.

        Our laughter echoes

from inside the cave, one we are free to step outside of.

        We do not have to hide here.

We do not have to hide anywhere. A torogoz flies past my face

        and I do not fear its flapping.

I.

Rain

I begin here:

kneeling by Tana’s bedside

begging for a story.

             ¡cuénteme un cuento, Tana

             cuénteme un cuento!

Tana waters my hair,

combs it back

into a tight braid.

             Va pues, bicha.

             Venite aquí.

Before words erupt,

a roar of her laughter

like miel; Tana bursts

with carcajadas newly-hatched

and tells of cafetales

of serpents and machetes

of the blistering feel

of sun, of the taste of dirt

on tongue, of men swallowed

by earth de pura vergüenza.

             ¿me entendiste, cipota?

             sí, I nod. sí, Tana.

                      ///

the first time I ask Tana

why she left El Salvador,

me dice: porque allá mucho llueve.

for weeks, Tana watched sky fall

to earth from bus windows. she held on tightly

to herself and the thought of mi mami,

borders away and alone somewhere en la capital.

no hay tiempo para esas babosadas, she thought

wiping her eye-made rain away.

Tana massaged her bloody feet into silence,

her throat aching for just one sip.

                      ///

for years, I am afraid of rain.

I am six years old and praying for sun.

when rainfall begins, I run

indoors, get caught by a teacher

in a cafeteria corner, crying.

I am six years old and believe

every time it rains, it is time to flee.

I am six years old and afraid

of being left behind.

I am six years old and my blood remembers

what it feels like to leave

a whole homeland behind.

                      ///

a Salvadoran woman once wrote:

our poetry has never had the luxury

of being enamored with the moon.

perhaps this is why all my poems

are about the sun, about coming from

women who have survived

by chasing it, women who go

only where the light will feed

them, women who leave

the second they suspect

a flood.

South Gate Fourth of July

Our mothers declare our freedom

           y salimos corriendo, knees ashed

by firework dust, pockets filled

           with pop-its. We spell stories

con sparklers, throw cohetes at our sisters’

           ankles, then run to hide

behind the apartment dumpster,

           knowing they’ll get us back soon.

Inside our home, fingers foil

           for the LAX Tacos stacked

on the table. We soak them in limes

           then bite rábanosly, salsa running

sticky down our forearms. Chestnut Avenue

           pours with kids, our older siblings

ready with packs of Mentos and Coke

           to make the fireworks go higher.

They huddle around to light the flame then skid

           away. Hoodied figures in basketball shorts

flock to the curb, to watch the fire

           work its way into the southeast sky,

neon sparks illuminating our faces.

Fifth Grade Show and Tell

El Salvador

is a country

too small to stand

out on the map

it is 8,124 square miles

of cobblestone roads

cafetales and greenery

leading up

to the volcanic skyline

and the way

the bitter skin

of the mamey

leaves your tongue

with the itchy

burn that is

cured only

by its sweet

insides and how

navidad really is

the most feliz

time of all

with the metralleta

fireworks

setting palm trees

on fire

in the night heat

of diciembre

and the two

american girls

wondering

why the hell

no one’s

called 9-1-1

another day

el chaparro

goes to el centro

and orders

un mango cumbia

sucking the lime

and pressing

the cool bottle

to his forehead

after the never-ending

day of work

and finally

comes home

to his esposa

who gives him

everything, no matter

how tired

she is too

she has the plate

of frijoles

and queso duro

ready

with the café

just right

she is always

just right

so she takes

a moment

for herself

kicks her feet up

on the hamaca

and sings

that song

from her favorite

novela

she sings

that song

so loud

I hear her

from my room

further up

the continent

How English Came to Grandma

Beatles songs blared

from the small radio in her kitchen

& twenty-something-year-old Elba

danced to “A Hard Day’s Night,”

singing English into existence in

a place it never should have arrived.

Like a work of brujería, English

enamored her

into thinking the US                 perfect.

For grandma, everything americano

was soaked in English and she

wanted to bathe in that language’s

ocean, no matter how bloody

she pretended it didn’t look.

Inglés la conquistó a pura paja

stuck its tongue down her throat

then bewitched her feet to follow it.

Grandma tells me she fled

in search of it, traced

its footprints up the isthmus

to Los Estados Unidos

the obvious place to go

the place where everybody ended

up, whether they wanted to or not

’cause, come on!

where else would they go

but to the place to which they all

belonged? No,

I don’t mean they belonged there

I mean they belonged to.

All This to Tell You: Grandma Still Does Not Speak English

She tried wrestling it once

but it twisted her tongue.

              So instead she clings

              to “Grandma”

              and never “Abuela”

              her ay lob jus              instead of te quiero

                      her Beatles lyrics

her thick jes mahm’s

and rright agüey, mahm

        from her jobs cleaning houses

        in wudlahn Heel             paz á Dína

                                 sometimes even beh-ver-lé Heel

her Spanglish

                      and her ay so sori’s.

Because if she knows anything about English,

        it’s how much that language demands

        her to apologize.

The Assessment Form Asks about My Anxiety

Let me begin with birds.

            Brown wings butterfly-kissing

my eyelids open. Yellow chicks

            in a child’s hands, squeezed

out of youthful joy. The marshmallowed

            peeps I believed their corpses.

I could tell you about the rain,

            how quickly I was convinced

it would drown me if I let it.

            Every winter I’d press my hot face

to classroom glass, rolled-up sweatshirt

            sleeves wet and sticky.

Or else I could tell you a story

            about hunger,

the salt of your sweat a seasoning

            —spoonfuls of dirt

crackling on your tongue

            then unsettling your stomach.

It wouldn’t be a story I’ve lived

            but it is still a story of mine,

this muscle memory

            of scavenging for scraps,

the insistence to prepare

            to run, to hide, to flee.

I could tell you about the men,

            their hands, their laughter

—but only if you promise to believe me.

            I could tell you about

not being believed,

            though I’d rather not.

I could give up and throw

            some big keywords at you.

War. Migration. Diaspora.

            Don’t all the traumas of my blood

begin there? But if they’re too heavy

            for your heart, let me go back to the birds:

their flutter a fury inside my chest,

            ribcaged flight fighting

to be freed. My panic is no more

            than their song-turned-screech,

what happens when a free and fragile thing

            is forced to survive.

When the Death Squads Come

They will come as they have always come: in broad daylight, at your door, grinning. Each knock the echo of a wound. They will take you from the classroom, each child’s tears a river leading back to the parent who lies somewhere in the sand. They will find you just before dusk. At the 6 p.m. church service. When they are done with you, only shoes remain. You will run from them on foot. On the bus that can hardly be called a bus. On all your life savings and then some. If you make it to the false-promise land, you are safe. For now. If not, you will hide away. In the caves. In another’s name—yours in flames. In the parts of el campo you think they will not dare go looking for you. When they come, you will warn the children, reminding them: we’ve been through this before. Some will live to tell the tale. Some will tell it. Or else, the death squads are already in your house. Turning the hamaca into a sinister thing, beer bottle from your fridge in hand. They have just come to ask some questions, they say. Questions that cannot be solved. They ask your name. To ask your name is to ask your life. You do not have another’s to borrow. In the kitchen, the kettle’s screech mirrors your insides. You wonder which will come first. The coffee or the bullet. The sun bright on your cheekbones, coffee burning your tongue. What a shame, some will say. What a shame. The brightest mind with a bullet in the brain.

Tío Toño is Ready to Die

over coffee and tamales.

He almost, but doesn’t

admit this to me.

Hija—aquí, tené,

hands quaking as coffee

flows from a red mug.

He sits down slowly,

nudges the sugar

across the table.

He smiles.

I smile back.

I am happy to be here

with him, Mami’s sole story

-teller after Tana left

north. We sit in the house

of the black gecko’s kiss;

rainfall begins

and so do my questions.

    *

The word “war” does not leave

his lips, but lives

in how his head hangs

a downward gaze

remembering when a uniformed

man pushed him onto ledge

shoved gun in spine

and asked if he believed

in God

            or in government

in good

            or in gore.

Tío Toño bowed his head

in prayer, waited for bullet—

Good God    Good  God    Good      God

—got blessing instead.

In the distance, a voice called out.

Si le disparás al señor ese,

vos serás el próximo que muere.

    *

The tamal pisque disappears

in his toothless chew as he raises

his head for the first time in our meal.

I knew that boy

the one who saved me.

That boy was once

a good boy

a God boy

not a government boy.

He lets out a sigh.

His whole body trembles.

I ask what I can do for his pain.

Tío Toño tells me

he won’t ask God

to save him this time

—no, not again.

When the Men Come Looking

I turn siguanaba cloaked in river

blood, face of horse or hair or hell. I strip

down to my slip and wait to catch them in

my snare. Arms long and lasso-like, my dark

yellowed eyes lure them in. Dizzying in

a wink. Fingers extend, wiry, showing

off this manicure de mugre, my nails

bite into monstrous men and make them mad.

They ask for it, their deaths—something about how

they walked into their wives fist-first, or lost

their hands up someone’s skirt. I come to them

dream-like, at first, tell them to find me at

the finca’s edge. They always come looking

for me. As if they don’t know what’s coming.

II.

Fellowship Application

The Commission’s criteria includes:

(1) Ability to be Tokenized

(2) Strength of Migrant Mentality

(3) Diplomatic Disposition

(4) Self-care or private health insurance.

(The fourth category was added in response to excessive

complaints about mental health.)

*

Recite your trauma in iambic pentameter

then pirouette back into palatable prose.

Remind the reviewers of their privilege but not

of their guilt; remember, it is your job to recognize

and respond to the need for representation.

You must be prepared to excel on the Commission’s annual panels

but not necessarily in daily life. Be sure to mention your parents’

labor, your siblings’ aching bellies. Scholarship awards

are based on generational access, but for the sake of your brown

faces on our website, the Commission makes exceptions.

Give thanks to the empire for the opportunity to be

considered. Close your essays politely,

with a dream you dream they find you worthy of.

How English Came to Me

It made its home

                                   hovering

                          around my body

the first four years of my life.

Sometimes, it tired

                                   and rested

in my shadow

                          trailed slimy red and sticky but

always                                        waited

            knew my hatred would pass

                        that I’d find my way to its lap.

                                                             Soon

I’d rest my head on its shoulder

curl up against fragmented bone

and let it dig its hands around my spine.

English was patient    because it knew

it would win              in this country

                                  I wouldn’t

    be able to resist much longer.

Sometimes I can still hear

English’s cackle

when at four years old

I proclaimed:

                                        ¡No me hable así!

    ¡Yo no hablo inglés y nunca lo hablaré!

*

        Weeks later              in kindergarten

I let English reign over

                                        my body

   let myself soak             in its liquid power.

*

I dizzied myself in this winding river     made its waters the language I tell stories in

built a home in its classes   declared a major in its body

chased it up the Thames  to the world’s oldest English-speaking university  tossed away spanish

reserved it for Saturdays  sometimes

or visits to grandma’s  and even now  the only spanish that lives in this poem is faint  memory

the words of a younger braver  self

*

and I’m afraid

’cause I bet

English is sitting

somewhere in this room

clutching its stomach

rolling over in laughter

at how I typed these words

sometimes first in spanish

then backspaced my return to English.

Because Papi Drove Lincolns

For our living, we had:

           signed Beatles records

                                            leftover eggplant parmesan

                                            from the Beverly Hills restaurants

winter fruit baskets

             & the blessings of a hundred-dollar tip.

When Papi’s clients left behind their belongings in the car, we had:

             a Nikon D300 brand new Beats $675 Armani flats

& Coach wallets too small

                            to hold the song of centavos in our pockets.

We kids knew what each client preferred—whether it was

          Essentia          or Core Perfect pH alkaline water

a supply of Red Vines  lemon slices    or Diet Coke

                   ready in the armrest.

We longed for the days    when Papi’s clients departed

from their holiday homes     & housekeepers emptied fridges

                        into the trunk of Papi’s town car:

a whole aisle of Whole Foods leftovers      Tetris-packed inside.

We learned that crops are only seasonal

            for those who have to grow them

                                                knew the elite could spare

                                                what we couldn’t afford

Still, when I left LA, I knew to order the Sicilian Pistachio flavor

            of Van Leeuwen Artisan Ice Cream

knew to talk Stones or Springsteen with my white friends’ parents

knew to mention the Huntington Gardens at my first Oxford dinner

             where a professor asked me why the libraries in LA

             allow such “unseemly” people to enter them

                       where he wondered aloud how I “managed”

                       to be sitting at the same table as him.

To the Eldest Daughter

because she remembered

to unfreeze the chicken

steam the arroz

wash the dishes

and prepare snacks

for the kids

after picking them up

from school,

dinner was

always half-ready

by the time

mami got home

from her twelve-hour

hospital shift

and I’d emerge quietly

from the books

I drowned myself in

those days

when I took for granted

the things she

inevitably sacrificed:

time with friends

the basketball team

her own homework

a childhood

learning to play

the cello

instead, she helped mami

raise the rest of us

while I wrote

she changed diapers

washed the cars

opened the windows

mopped the floors

took the heat

when I broke

the family camera

pulled me aside

and scolded me

for not understanding

our parents couldn’t

afford the fancy

summer programs

I begged for

and still, I’m sure

she stayed up helping

the summer mami decided

to sell burritos

every evening

after work

so they could pay

for me to go write poems

in Tennessee

years of my jet-setting

big dreaming

sleeping soundly

knowing she was

home doing everything

that needed doing

and still she drove

six days

cross-country

alone

to watch me

descend

Old West’s steps

graduation cap

and all,

the string of roses

she spent all night sewing

draped over

my neck—

oh, hermana

I bow to you

now as I did then,

wreathed

by the grace

of every goodness

you have given.

Imagined Portrait of My Father as Architect

Forehead lines fade. The red of his eyes returns

to the road. No longer migrant, Dad drives himself

only. Still wears a white collar. A man of maps,

he lays out his plans on the dining room table

when he steps inside our home, singing

loudly. Unlike the under-breath tones

of the other life, here his song is a belted building

we all chime in to help assemble. With hands

free from steering wheel, Dad’s arms stretch

outward, point to the burnt sienna roofs of his own

design. Dad does not move musicians, but everyone

moves to music. Papi is still pillar, but not patriarch.

Mami manda todavía. The two cook together,

all the tías and tíos and little primitos a crowd

spilling over into the garden of frutas outside.

Papi plays the accordion, has time

to teach us kids how to master it. We sing

together at the lakeside house he built us

all our voices booming sin vergüenza.

Before the Interview

Little sister’s hands tug

at my hair, mapping

her faith in me into my scalp

as she braids colochos into crown, holy

around my head, then secures

with bobby pins, twisting my bun twice

and then again until a grin appears

wide across her face, teeth brave, bold

like our blood, her eyes beam at me

as I sit on the living room floor, trembling

the morning of the interview and her hands

still tug, taming the mechas of my mind

as she declares me a particular kind

of royalty, a particular kind of world-changer,

turns and says Oooh. You got this, hermana!!

*

and thank God, I do—

thanks to my little brother’s prayers, which he sends

upwards from la gran mesa in the kitchen

last night’s homework still strewn across it,

along with the breakfast Mami made

which I am too nervous to eat, so instead

before heading to school, my brother sits

calmly in his light, head folded into his palms

in prayer, he begs:      Diosito—please, please

let my sister have her dreams, let my sister have her dreams

                          please God she works so hard

en el nombre de tu hijo amado Cristo Jesús, amén.

*

Big sister waits for me in the car, drives

me to the consulate, then around the block again

until I am brave enough to step out the car

she holds the hands she painted carefully

the night before, as she polished

their nails, repeating: You’re gonna get it sis. You always do.

like she knows something I don’t

believe yet, something I am still learning

to hold. She holds it for me now, shakes her head:

Naw, sis. How could they possibly not choose you?

When the Call Finally Comes

What joy to be surrounded by siblings—to exclaim

         “we’re going to England, we’re going to England!”

as we cry together in the car en route to Target

         where we shop for the most luxurious of things:

                  reduced-price sweaters

Hot Cheeto Puffs (the most coveted of chips)

         peppermint soap

         hardcover books

a giant plush unicorn my little sister stuffs into the cart.

         We indulge every sweetness &

I repeat the words of Lucille Clifton in my head,

         like I had done every day before the interview:

except this time my one hand holding tight

         not only my other hand, but my siblings’.

All This to Show You

How I take English

by its bloodied shoulders

dissolving its body

into its own soris

until it offers its wallet

to pay for my flat

by the river

where I spend

months learning love

finding ways

to forgive

this tongue

its treachery

this language

once monstrous

made wholly

my own.

Instead of Producing

papaya needed peeling

needed its skin slit

along its sides, to release

the bitter of its milk

needed to spend hours

sweetening in the sun

needed to be cut open

for its seeds needed saving

to turn salve for the stomach

and its flesh needed time

to turn a deeper orange

which needed to be served

into bowl and be bitten

needed to nourish

the body whose hair

needed braiding and

the body whose song

needed listening to and

the body who had not had

a thing to eat yet and

the body who had spent

all day tending

to patients, the body

whose legs needed

stretching, whose feet

needed another’s fingers

to walk along their soles

until the aching stopped,

the body whose arms

kneaded flour, water, salt

because bread needed

to become

needed to rest

so it could rise

and bake

and once ready

bread needed

to be centered

needed the company

of other foods

needed a family

to gather around

and behold its being,

bowing their heads

in thanks

for this blessing

& it is green

           I have seen the future & it is

green. close your eyes & inhala

onetwothreefour exhala.

open them now and see with me:

mami and I still alive

viejitas together, rocking gently

on the porch of a wood-framed house

in a future worthy of our joy.

mami’s hair mid-length, loose silver

over her shoulders, mis colochos

tangled back into a single braid.

we are mid-laughter, her brown

-spotted hands and my own

hold each other

in the way of the newborn’s grip:

hand wrapped around a single finger

—a sign of a flesh claimed as its own.

mami’s eyes glisten green.

with her toothless smile,

mami grins so big

she’ll save the world

all over again.

Acknowledgments

Abrazos y todo mi amor to my people, who helped make these poems possible, who reflected back my light in the moments I needed it most. This book is for, and because of, you.

To my parents—todo, todo lo que soy se lo debo a ustedes. Thank you for teaching me, for guiding me, for giving me this beautiful life. To my sisters, Priscilla and Natalie, for your love and care; to my brother Danny, for being the first reader of this book. Gracias a Tana, por sus cuentos, su cariño, sus enseñanzas. Gracias a Grandma Elba, por todo su valor y sus esfuerzos. To tía Dee Dee, for always seeing me, and to Uncle Ron, who wanted the first signed copy but left us before he could get it. Los amo a todos.

To my Salvis and Central American community, especially my CISPES fam, fellow Radical Roots delegates, La Piscucha editorial team, and the intergenerational working group for La Cherada:

it is an honor to learn with and from you, to imagine, dream, and build with you. A mi familia en El Salvador, especialmente Tío Jimmy, muchas gracias por apoyarme durante mis visitas a El Salvador.

To eXiled Poetry Society, especially Alejandro Heredia and Hayat Rasul, for teaching me to write in truth and fire. To my Winter Tangerine fall workshop cohort. To the Macondo Writers’

Workshop, especially Joy Castro, Kay Ulanday Barrett, Alana Hinojosa, Saúl Hernández, Xelena Gonzalez, and so many others, for your encouragement and inspiration. Mil gracias a los poetas del V Festival de Poesía Amada Libertad, por unas de las experiencias mas bellas de compartir poesía— especialmente le doy las gracias a Alberto López Serrano, Josué Andrés Moz, Cynthia Guardado, Betún Valerio, Mariel Damián, y Pablo Siguenza. To my literary community in London, especially Nathalie Teitler, Bridge Writers Collective, and Maura Dooley.

To féi hernandez, for seeing the sun in me always, for learning and growing with me all these years. To Antonio López, for your love and care with these poems, for your ceaseless encouragement throughout this journey, for your infinite faith in me and this book.

To Ariana Benson, Sarah Yerima, Maia Elsner, Alan Chazaro, Willy Palomo, and Javier Zamora, for their generous eyes on this manuscript. To Claire Celestin, Attiya Latif, Abdiel López, Mergitu Yadeto, and so many others, for your friendship throughout this process. Gratitude also to these writers for their support: Christopher Soto, Francisco Aragón, Jo’Van O’Neal, José Angel Araguz, Allison Deegan, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, among others.

To José Olivarez, for being such a generous and supportive editor, and for believing in my poems in the first place. To Maya Marshall and Haymarket Books for bringing this book to fruition.

To Kiara Aileen Machado, for creating the stunningly beautiful artwork that graces this cover.

Finally, thank you to the editors of the following journals and anthologies, for including selected poems from this chapbook in their publications: wildness, LitHub, PANK, Latino Book Review, Wandering Song: Central American Writing in the U.S., Accolades: A Women Who Submit Anthology, and BreakBeat Poets Vol. 4: LatiNext.

About the Author

Luz María Castillo

Janel Pineda (b. 1996 Los Angeles, CA) is a Salvadoran poet and educator. A first-generation college graduate, she earned a BA in English from Dickinson College, where she was a Posse Scholar. Pineda has performed her poetry internationally in both English and Spanish, and been published in LitHub, PANK, BreakBeat Poets, Vol. 4: LatiNext, and Wandering Song: Central American Writing in the U.S., among others. She is a part of the editorial team that founded La Piscucha Magazine, a multilingual arts, literature, and culture magazine created by Salvadoran writers. Since her involvement with the 2018 Radical Roots Delegation, Pineda is also a member of the Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador (CISPES). As a Marshall Scholar, Pineda holds an MA in Creative Writing and Education from Goldsmiths, University of London.