Pictured, Jonathan Fletcher meets Dr. Cornel West.

Citizen

Citizen that I am,
I take my daily constitutional,
detention in the back
of my mind because I look the way I look.
In Newark, New Jersey,
they questioned citizens, even a veteran.
I myself never served.
I don’t have the courage.
The mere presence of ICE
would make me freeze.
A hard knock at my door would make me
quake. Though a believer
no longer, my fingers and head
bend together when I read of pastors
ready to protect their flock
from upright wolves,
each badged and armed. Though a student
no more, I’ll learn
what I can about the rights
of the undocumented, educate
my nervous students
in what no uniform can take.

Oh, How Homophobic I Once Was, Sometimes Am!

If only I could swallow
all the times I used the homophobic slur
that starts with f,
substitute and repeat fabulous,
fantastic, fine and fun
for every instance of that ugly language,
as if rosaried penance from a priest.
And only I could find and apologize
to Carter for imitating
the way he walked in the halls
of our private military all-boys school,
wrapped his torso and hair
with towels in the locker room,
danced around the field
while we threw the ball to anyone
but him, and if he goes
by Carter no longer,
I’d ask him to forgive me that, too.
And if I could go back to 2015
and instead of qualifying
and emphasizing that I was
not gay when I told a friend I planned
to attend my first parade
of this kind, I’d let them think
what they want and worry
not about what they might say,
and would feel (as I do now,
knowing finally who I am)
the absolute opposite of shame.

Observer

March 26, 1997, Rancho Santa Fe, California

Eyes like saucers
as I watch the TV, view from helicopter,
perspective of a UFO:
body after body enshrouded white,
carried out. 39 in all.
Terracotta roofs, arched doorways,
wrought iron accents,
open courtyards.
Skies San Diego-quality.
Such a life, who’d want to leave?
Even for a higher existence?
Maybe the problem is me.
I can’t watch a corner of the night sky
turn comet-bright
without thinking of the darkness
it accentuates.
Or marvel at Hale-Bopp as it passes
without thinking
of the flying rock that lizard-like eyes
would once have glimpsed,
might well have worshiped
had it not been for the dust and fire.

Brothers

According to the Peterson Institute for International Economics, the service sector prices would increase 1.7% if the Trump administration deported all the immigrants working in the restaurant industry here illegally.

Hungry as Esau,
you crave more than the dishes
made and served
by those you consider less
than blessed.
Forget menudo. Forget pozole.
Forget caldo de res.
With teeth that chomp as much as gnash,
you chew ’til there’s only bone in bowl.
And yet, you still crave more.
You want them gone.
You want their jobs.
You want the birthright
of their children.
Like Isaac, I cannot see
the difference between them and you.
Garment me in red hair.
Shave me smooth as Jacob.
Would I not be the same person?
What is the body but clothing?
With knife, divide the blessing.
Or, in cursing them, curse yourself.My Conquistadores

We’ll give you God,
you give us gold.
Offer your wrists.
Offer your children.
Mine the land
for cinnabar.
Mine yourselves,
extract it all.
If you had souls,
we’d take them, too.
Pray to a man
around a cross.
Cross yourself
before the Virgin.
The virgin land,
we will flatten,
then raise haciendas
as well as churches.
Ourselves, too,
we will raise,
turn brown skin
pinkish-red.
Tell Jonathan
we are coming.
Look out for
the caravels.
Listen for
horseshoed hooves.
Feel the stab
of the end
of a red, saltired flag.
Carry us
inside of you.
Gird yourself
in lustrous armor.
Wear a steel morion.
Your future children,
they are ours.
Your Spaniard blood,
we also claim.
Dare you try
to get us out.
Are we not
also you?

Jonathan Fletcher holds a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing from Columbia University School of the Arts.

His work has been featured in numerous literary publications and he has won several writing contests. He is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Microfiction nominee, and won Northwestern University Press’ Drinking Gourd Chapbook Poetry Prize in 2023, by which his debut chapbook — This is My Body — was published only weeks ago. He serves as a Zoeglossia Fellow and resides in San Antonio, Texas.

Click to read Alphabet Box’s interview with Jonathan Fletcher. 

We also invite you to follow Jonathan’s posts on Bluesky @jmfletcher15.bsky.social and learn more about his educational and community engagement on his Facebook page.

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