WHEN YOU REALIZE WHO YOU’VE BECOME 

you are on the verge 
of arriving to the door. 
There is someone 
directly in front of you 
and in front of them 
and in front of them. 
Behind you is a line too. 
And someone who knows 
you from Morse Middle School 
and someone who knows you 
from the church on 19th. 
On the verge of a crossing rush 
to enter the spot. I might dawn 
a velvet rope and red footprints. 
Stay on the inside of the loud 
caution tape. I might pop 
out my ID early and show 
everyone around me. You see 
that's me, baby. Yes, I’ve been on 
TV. Well, a TV was an idea 
that didn’t work out as intended. 
And no, it didn’t mean more 
to my mom than not calling 
last week. That’s on me on the verge 
of assumption. Me on the top 
of the Maple street hill, fell 
so many times, revolution 
of story-scabs. Tumbling, 
stay tumbling. Almost 
to the front. I inspect 
my identity closely. 
Am I Puerto Rican 
or just look like a lemon tree?
Infinite haircuts and I grow.
Pruned up. On the verge of the
bouncer. Who bounces and isn’t
mean, just unforgiving. On the
verge of becoming whoever I’ll
stumble out as. The enlightened 
scarecrow. Expiring. 
Who was I before 
I could spell 
my name? 
The bouncer 
grabs the ID and looks 
at that man 

then looks at me, 

then looks at that man, 

and looks at me.

HALF OF THE PARROTS RECOVERED 

the block is pecking through the early motions. showing up
was half of the struggle and the struggle was a beach
worth of sand. recovery is a spiritual process that could fill
a brooklyn tree with parrots; more of a ritual than a protest.
the parrots flew in on a journal entry and boy, are their wings
tired of thinking they can make a difference. the cafecito seems
to be part of this revolution too and the summer sidewalk has begun
to crawl. the trees we got last year have become neighbor-kin
and have dressed up in migrating quill. outside my window
are thousands of childhood days that follow me in technicolor 

plumage. they have filled the trees like sap, these days i collect,
and repeat as folklore. a branch is reaching out, to affirm the self—
and who am i to deny who i am? a branch is filled with
potential flight and a history of beaks that intend on
laying low until viejito. repeating name after name after name
after name after name after saying a prayer for a boy who died in
a protest in milwaukee for the right to righteousness. another says
a joke about imposter syndrome. one repeated it unknowing of its
place of origin. another repeated it and the truth made it burst-angels
like a pillow fight. one is repairing their spanish as they speak.

Karl Michael Iglesias is a Puerto Rican actor, director, and writer from Milwaukee, WI, who now resides in Brooklyn, NY. His poetry can be read in the Florida Review, RHINO, the Brooklyn Review, the Madison Review, the Hong Kong Review and the Academy of American Poets, to name a few. Karl is the author of the poetry chapbooks CATCH A GLOW and The Bounce—both available from Finishing Line Press.