Artist’s Statement: In the article “The Resegregation of Jefferson County,” Nikole Hannah-Jones writes that “since 2000, at least 71 communities across the country, most of them white and wealthy, have sought to break away from their public-school districts to form smaller, more exclusive ones.” This led to research into my state’s segregation and integration efforts. The rhetoric, the maps, and the data were all there—coded language, school boundaries, and even diversity statements covered the stagnant “struggle” toward integration. As an educator, this project provided context for my experience and those of the students in the classroom. Notes and citations will appear at the end of the project.
MFA in Creative Writing from UC Riverside; B.A. in English Literature from Fresno State
David Campos is the son of Mexican immigrants, a CantoMundo fellow, and the author of the poetry collections Furious Dusk (University of Notre Dam Press, 2015) and American Quasar (Red Hen Press, 2021). His poetry has appeared in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, and The Normal School. He’s the winner of the 2014 Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize from Letras Latinas, and the annual Prairie Schooner Strousse Award for the best group of poems in Prairie Schooner. He teaches at Fresno City College.
MFA in Creative Writing from Fresno State (in progress); B.A. in English – Creative Writing from Fresno State
Hermelinda Hernandez Monjaras is a Zapoteca from Oaxaca, Mexico. She’s an aspiring poeta, currently pursuing her Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing at Fresno State. She is a graduate artist in Juan Felipe Herrera’s Laureate Lab Visual Wordist Studio, and she has received a fellowship from the Community of Writers. Her poetry has appeared in Small Press Traffic, Acentos Review, Zone 3, Poets.org, Honey Literary, The Ana, Voicemail Poems, and elsewhere.
Juan Felipe Herrera
October 16-30
Professor Emeritus of Chicano and Latin American Studies at Fresno State
Juan Felipe Herrera is the 21st Poet Laureate of the United States (2015-2016) and the first Latino to hold the position. From 2012-2014, he served as California Poet Laureate. Herrera’s many collections of poetry include Every Day We Get More Illegal; Notes on the Assemblage; Senegal Taxi; Half of the World in Light: New and Selected Poems, a recipient of the PEN/Beyond Margins Award and the National Book Critics Circle Award; and 187 Reasons Mexicanos Can’t Cross the Border: Undocuments 1971-2007. He is also the author of Crashboomlove: A Novel in Verse, which received the Americas Award. His books of prose for children include: SkateFate; Calling the Doves, which won the Ezra Jack Keats Award; Upside Down Boy, which was adapted into a musical for young audiences in New York City; and Cinnamon Girl: Letters Found Inside a Cereal Box. His book Jabberwalking, a children’s book focused on turning your wonder at the world around you into weird, wild, incandescent poetry, was published in 2018. Herrera is also a performance artist and activist on behalf of migrant and indigenous communities and at-risk youth.
Again: this is how it Begins. What to say to the wordless? Count: one, two, three. Clouds, blocks, Drops of rain. Everything is Finite. I Go on numbering How many days, weeks, months I have held him outside my body. Keeping the score, List of possible Misfortunes we Negotiated Out of to get here. One: Pulling myself out of the wrecked car, no Quickening under my skin. Remain, remains— Such a slight Toss of a coin. They turned the screen of the Ultrasound away from me, Viability a word I listened for as they Whispered in the windowless Exam room, while I said Yes to whatever might happen next— Zero or zenith—then rapid heart.
Author’s note: The poems in this series all use the image of a window as their starting point, some in the title itself and others more peripherally. I’ve been thinking of this symbol a lot lately — as a portal for wonder in childhood, an aperture to others’ lives during the pandemic, a view of the world outside after giving birth and spending those early days indoors. These poems may not have come into existence without the invitation to contribute to The Fresno 15, and I am endlessly grateful to the MFA program for my years there and the deep sense of community I’ve carried with me since graduating in 2011. Thank you for reading and for supporting the Larry Levis Memorial Scholarship.
The flower shop marquee says, remember your loved ones. A line appears between my brows and stays there
the rest of my life. I tell all my poems to Siri. Write a note. Add more. She thinks the poem has ended
because a driver cut me off and I stopped speaking. Three times a week for an hour round-trip
I try to think of something metaphorical. Most weeks I can’t. Most weeks I’m thinking
or remembering and it’s recorded nowhere except maybe the line between my brows I keep checking
in the sunvisor mirror. I title each poem poem so I don’t lose it in the Notes app amongst the shopping lists
and the errands and the login credentials. Siri thinks poem is palm. It’s been so long
since I’ve said the word poem aloud maybe I’ve forgotten how to pronounce it. At night I nurse the baby and pull my finger down
the screen’s brightness like an eyelid and insert all the line breaks, the phone saying return return return.
Author’s note: The poems in this series all use the image of a window as their starting point, some in the title itself and others more peripherally. I’ve been thinking of this symbol a lot lately — as a portal for wonder in childhood, an aperture to others’ lives during the pandemic, a view of the world outside after giving birth and spending those early days indoors. These poems may not have come into existence without the invitation to contribute to The Fresno 15, and I am endlessly grateful to the MFA program for my years there and the deep sense of community I’ve carried with me since graduating in 2011. Thank you for reading and for supporting the Larry Levis Memorial Scholarship.
watery reflections in profile—mother, infant, stroller—appear & disappear walking alongside the windowed
storefronts at the mall—interrupted by plaster & columns—like dreaming then waking—these intervals to measure
the days & nights—apparitions—we cross stripes in the floor made by skylights—once shadow—a flash of light
Author’s note: The poems in this series all use the image of a window as their starting point, some in the title itself and others more peripherally. I’ve been thinking of this symbol a lot lately — as a portal for wonder in childhood, an aperture to others’ lives during the pandemic, a view of the world outside after giving birth and spending those early days indoors. These poems may not have come into existence without the invitation to contribute to The Fresno 15, and I am endlessly grateful to the MFA program for my years there and the deep sense of community I’ve carried with me since graduating in 2011. Thank you for reading and for supporting the Larry Levis Memorial Scholarship.
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