Abraham A. Joven

Who Are You Swinging At?

Abraham A. Joven

After Joseph Rios

“It’s like fighting ghosts, I think,” I whisper as my heart finally settles. Surveying the room that felt like home Now turned into a scene of horrors; Stranger to me after all of this, And I feel a stranger in it after all of this, And we just feel estranged.

I never knew the man the way I’d hoped. And some time at some place, I know, I’d convinced myself I’d find him where He’d always been: The bottom of the bottle.

Running was natural. Soccer was my favorite Sport and even though I hated the conditioning drills Or the long run days, I think the running On the pitch felt like second nature Because the air I’d take in And the space I’d cover All served to take me away from him.

But when I’d run out of reasons not to Or spaces to hide from The question I was most afraid of, I’d finally relented.

And I guess, at least, I know the answer now. Even if the future is scarier for knowing. There are spirits trapped in each bottle And not all of them carry the cure

To grieving your father.

Kamay

Abraham A. Joven

You love telling the story of how I’d fall asleep rubbing your pinky finger Back when we all slept in the same bed. A one-bedroom apartment for five people Even if it was really only four of us most nights Was cramped, but you made it home. I watch you run your hands together, skin weathered Now and etched with more wrinkles than I remember. I didn’t appreciate it then, but those soft hands Toughened over the past two and a half decades For me. For Tim. For Ace. As I watch our child being cradled by their Lola I reach for your hand again. Different and the same. These hands bare a tapestry of love.

Bury the Dead

Abraham A. Joven

My neighborhood’s dying At least that’s what they say. Shuttered store fronts Empty houses And pan handlers almost as numerous As the cars on Mission.

But they don’t see After the sun goes down The lights flicker on in the homes On Sky Meadow Or in the apartments On Tilton. They don’t see us kneading bread Or splitting tamales Or rolling lumpia In our kitchens. Checking homework Or talking about that one guy Always stealing my stapler At the dinner table. Balancing budgets Or shifts of work and feeding the baby Under those same lights.

Well, let the dead bury their dead We’ve still got some living left.

Rift

Abraham A. Joven

I am a Child of the Philippines. Born of wild, jumbled colors: Bright yellow mangoes dabbed with Red, shimmering turquoise in the waters Balikbayan-ing to the shores of Palawan, candy pinks and purples ringing the jeepneys In Manila, earthy brown and deep greens in the Hills that ensconce Baguio.

But I went away.

I am a Child of Hawthorne. Raised in the concrete Meant to stamp us out but Rising, rising, rising, always rising Like that Rose. A heart encased in Thorns.

Defensive. Vulnerable. Alive.

I am a Child now grown. I am a child between two homes.

The Thing We’re Building

Abraham A. Joven

My hands are muddy And worn And leathered From this thing we’re building.

I don’t know Don’t care to Know anything About this thing we’re building.

Who comes inside Who stays outside Who isn’t even considered For this thing we’re building.

We were told it was Eden New Jerusalem Heaven But we’ve built a tower in Babel instead.

Abraham A. Joven is a writer and immigrant rights advocate based in Southern California. Working at the intersection of social justice and faith, he crafts art reflective of his experience. He lives in Southern California with his amazing wife and loves Liverpool Football Club, Hamilton, and anything related to comic books.