SELECTION OF POEMS
by Dimitri Reyes
a selection of poems from Dimitri Reyes | 2026
Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash
Papi Pichon’s Origin Story: Version 1
Grandpa speaks of Papi Pichón as a placeholder
when we can’t see Jesus. He’s a proud
understudy. He says that because of him
pigeons no longer suffer on earth, that this
is their heaven. Every crust of bread they get
is gratis, no family first card embarrassment.
He is humble when punching train tickets
with his talons. It’s said that Papi Pichón
hatched out of a poem, pink and dumb,
a son to none. He grubbed on moriviví,
his nest old newsprints. He had no parents,
just metaphor. His angular footprints were the guts
of peace signs. For centuries he marveled
at babies flailing arms alongside their moms.
He noted that this was our chance at learning to fly,
for each feather formed a wing which flew him
to the mainland for free. They called him the smartest
bird off the island, where flapping to the end of earth’s
margin held no fear of falling from existence.
Papi Pichón doesn’t remember how he began to fly--
a fledgling, who became bird, who became journey.
To spread avian seed. To live long and multiply.
A pigeon’s wings are a time stamp
that assures it when this world was flat.
Papi Pichon’s Shadowboxes with His Legacy
I’m every youth that pummels your campo’s wise guy,
calling each jab a gift to place bets and riff on the dimes
of every bird beneath me. My legacy consists of fists
clenched tight, to wallop and maim, to ball up the
shamelessness boiled into a twisted spine. Boxing,
a sacrificial sport by design, breath and wind conceived
in the sancocho brine of a Trinidad, Rosario, Camacho, Cotto,
Ortiz, Olivera, Rivera, Montañez, Torres, Vázquez, Gómez,
and you. Every one of my swings is a comida del pobre
story to swallow in this fighting game, where any kid
in a high school bathroom can flap his wings, make a scene,
and throw hands against another like the generations of bodies
before him. In the cockpits of backyards, clubs, or back alleys
of clubs, they’re here. With their opponent against the ropes
morphed into urinal or dumpster, clobbering and swinging
until one hears that inner viejo say, hit em’ with the bolo, and then
it cuts quick like sugarcane. Through the art of a fist-to-chin
connection, I demonstrate how human can make human blood
trickle down slow, gushing aloe. Each time, swollen appendages
make mountains of blueprints with spit and bone skin graphed
on another man’s fists to be worn as a flag. In these moments,
I begin to question where those hands have been. But who am I
to wait for sacks of daggers to speak a double-edged legacy
when every bob and weave comes with the wind of a whisper.
Papi Pichon’s Shadowboxes with His Legacy
I’m every youth that pummels your campo’s wise guy,
calling each jab a gift to place bets and riff on the dimes
of every bird beneath me. My legacy consists of fists
clenched tight, to wallop and maim, to ball up the
shamelessness boiled into a twisted spine. Boxing,
a sacrificial sport by design, breath and wind conceived
in the sancocho brine of a Trinidad, Rosario, Camacho, Cotto,
Ortiz, Olivera, Rivera, Montañez, Torres, Vázquez, Gómez,
and you. Every one of my swings is a comida del pobre
story to swallow in this fighting game, where any kid
in a high school bathroom can flap his wings, make a scene,
and throw hands against another like the generations of bodies
before him. In the cockpits of backyards, clubs, or back alleys
of clubs, they’re here. With their opponent against the ropes
morphed into urinal or dumpster, clobbering and swinging
until one hears that inner viejo say, hit em’ with the bolo, and then
it cuts quick like sugarcane. Through the art of a fist-to-chin
connection, I demonstrate how human can make human blood
trickle down slow, gushing aloe. Each time, swollen appendages
make mountains of blueprints with spit and bone skin graphed
on another man’s fists to be worn as a flag. In these moments,
I begin to question where those hands have been. But who am I
to wait for sacks of daggers to speak a double-edged legacy
when every bob and weave comes with the wind of a whisper.
Papi Pichon’s Seeks Counsel
Vayan delante de mí
Que le hablen y le responda
Mother Botánica,
morphed ninety-nine cents of
sliced bread into dough balls
for breakfast. Saturday morning.
Very early. No butter, no
mayo, just filled with my
daily bread. Going to the
botánica on a half empty
stomach to fill your
self
on sweat guised in
tears of Me. I am no air
conditioner. I’m heat and
murmur. I am this world, but
you are not your island. I am
what I bring to you, sage
when you enter me, the
ding at the storefront,
vibrations
and shakers. Greetings
in the language of your
grandmama’s swollen feet.
Walk into me, son.
I am her agua,
Nile-River rich.
Espiritismo disguised
in Hongosan and
Alcoholado, my people
come here by the baskets.
And when it’s your turn
to transcend, it will be you
who’ll come back
for me.
Vayan delante de mí
Que le hablen y le responda
Mother Botánica,
morphed ninety-nine cents of
sliced bread into dough balls
for breakfast. Saturday morning.
Very early. No butter, no
mayo, just filled with my
daily bread. Going to the
botánica on a half empty
stomach to fill your
self
on sweat guised in
tears of Me. I am no air
conditioner. I’m heat and
murmur. I am this world, but
you are not your island. I am
what I bring to you, sage
when you enter me, the
ding at the storefront,
vibrations
and shakers. Greetings
in the language of your
grandmama’s swollen feet.
Walk into me, son.
I am her agua,
Nile-River rich.
Espiritismo disguised
in Hongosan and
Alcoholado, my people
come here by the baskets.
And when it’s your turn
to transcend, it will be you
who’ll come back
for me.
