Live Nude Poems

Day of the Dead They walk among us, snickering at our costumes but secretly wishing they could dress in our flesh. While we lay marigolds at their graves, they sneak into our homes through drafty windows to catch up on Games of Thrones, fast forwarding through commercials so they can get back before St. Peter locks the door. Before they leave, they rummage through family albums and flip through the photos on our phones while we sleep, desperately trying to remember who they once were. Carlos A. DeJuana spent nine years working as a journalist across Latin America before settling in Washington, DC, where he now works for the federal government.  His poetry has appeared in riverSedge, a literary journal published by the University of Texas-Pan American, and most recently in the online journal Synesthesia. He is married and has two daughters.  When he is not working, taking care of his girls, or writing, he greatly enjoys naps.

Oral History H er husband found work Teaching in a backcountry schoolhouse After the war. It wasn’t her first choice, she said, But in lean times like those, You took what opportunity presented. They headed west In a beat up Ford truck Given to the couple in dowry. The birth of their first child followed— A boy with sandy hair and blue eyes. She named the child after her husband, But everyone called him Little Bit. It was a happy time, she said. Living in an old farm house On the edge of an alfalfa field  Paid for by the school board. The teacher’s salary was paltry, But the children’s parents would bring them:  Potatoes . Onions.   Ham . Apples.   Butter. Whatever bounty the season had to offer.  The weather turned sour early that year And the baby caught a fever. People remembered it as the worst winter ever. Despite the prayers and doctoring, Sickness took the child one moonless night. But the man and woman had to wait  To lay