Paper Citizens Pantoum

They entered my house without asking my name,

without knocking on the door or saying please.

They invaded our houses, our offices, our properties,

and they stole the dignity in the streets of Chelsea.

Without knocking on the door or saying please,

they entered my house without saying their names.

And they stole the dignity in the streets of Chelsea.

Are we properties? ¿Somos propiedades?

They entered my house without saying their names,

they weaponized our skin, our accent, our Latinidad.

Are we properties? ¿Somos propiedades?

They instilled fear across our neighborhood.

They weaponized our skin, our accent, our Latinidad,

as if we are citizens made out of paper.

They instilled fear across our neighborhood,

scratched like a lottery ticket.

As if we are citizens made out of paper,

they invaded my home, burnt my identity.

Scratched like a lottery ticket,

the same I entered when I got my first visa.

They invaded my home, burnt my identity,

they demolished my family, weaponized the Laws,

the same I entered when I got my first visa.

Were we ever safe? ¿Estuvimos alguna vez a salvo?

They demolished my family, weaponized the Laws.

Our existence is merely documentation.

Were we ever safe? ¿Estuvimos alguna vez a salvo?

They entered my house without asking my name.

Mariana Pereira Carvalho is a Brazilian poet, technology educator, feminist, and researcher in the intersection of gender equality and technology. She writes about how technology impacts the world we live in, especially marginalized groups, such as women and immigrants. She currently lives in Boston with her partner and their pup, Bono. Instagram: @hellomariworld

At Starrett’s Dam

Bless the sun-rust day of return

to this red rushing river of Miller’s. Birth-

place purrs when it’s finally yours. Born

to a certain spot for a reason. Gushing falls—

white threads pearl. A dam of reminds & remains.

See—behind those factory window blinds.

Great grandfather a steel hardener. Heating, holding

& cooling. Old Tom who died with his gangrene on.

Doctor said you can live Tom. To live you must

cut off your foot. He chose to be un-chopped.

Underground. Silver Lake’s his nearby resting place.

Nursery of my ancestors—a quick walk from where I

stand at the factory’s dam. A river is so affectionate.

Tributaries join in, carry on & out of town. Spill into

a mightier one. I washed my mother’s & father’s feet.

Worn ugly. Clipped & dug their toe’s dead skin

with ungloved hands. Awful yellowed. Nails too old

to bend. Scissor & file. It’s hard to not do harm.

My own ten first counted by them. Toes hearty

& compliant. To market & home. With roast beef & none.

I would have liked to wash Tom’s feet. Alive. In his rented

room. Over there on Conant Road. Kind of daughter

of this spot I am. Oh gosh I’m going under. Mine too

into the burner. To ash & dirt. Offspring will come.

There’s no good god like the river you’re from.

Kelly DuMar is author of four poetry chapbooks, and her poems are published in Bellevue Literary Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Allium, Thrush, and more. Kelly’s photos have been featured on the cover of Brooklyn Review, Josephine Quarterly, Cool Beans, and more. Kelly teaches a variety of creative writing workshops for the International Women’s Writing Guild and the Transformative Language Arts Network. She was named Outstanding Language Arts Practitioner in 2025 by the Transformative Language Arts Network. A passionate promoter of writing communities, Kelly produces the Featured Open Mic for the Journal of Expressive Writing. Reach her at kellydumar.com

Dwelling

My house becomes a grief-museum. In this room

dust covered guitars, strings that taste

of blue, a limp sheet over one painting,

two old trees leaning in someone’s front yard.

My house becomes a pasture of disbelief. The bed

holds the valley of his shoulder, his slippers lie,

grubby and dormant. In the corner stands a wooden

cane he bought to use when he got old and stiff.

My house becomes a voice-garden. Trees fling

about in useless wind. Branches scratch surprise in

rattled time. The refrigerator moans its loneliness,

the dryer shrieks at the clothes, tears apart limbs.

My house becomes a loss-factory, full of nuts

and bolts that don’t match up, long iron shafts

that have forgotten their use, baskets of keys

that no longer match any possible doors.

Judy Kaber’s poems have appeared in journals such as Rattle, Pleiades, december, Poet Lore, and Prairie Schooner. She won the 2023 Maine Poetry Contest, the 2024 Maine Literary Short Works Poetry Award, and the 2024 Naugatuck River Review Narrative Poetry Contest. She is a past poet laureate of Belfast, Maine.