West Trestle Review
  • Home
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
    • September 2024
    • May 2024
    • January 2024
    • November 2023
    • September 2023
    • May 2023
    • March 2023
    • January 2023
    • November 2022
    • September 2022
    • July 2022
    • May 2022
    • March 2022
    • January 2022
    • November 2021
    • September 2021
    • July 2021
    • May 2021
    • March 2021
    • January 2021
    • November 2020
    • September 2020
    • July 2020
  • Cross-Ties
  • About
    • Arrivals & Departures
    • Masthead
    • Submit
  • Archive
    • Beal, Jane
    • Burch, Beverly
    • Case, Katherine
    • Gunton, Kathleen
    • Gutowsky, Connie
    • Kralowec, Kimberly
    • Lee, Priscilla
    • Lipshin, Irene
    • Rudd Entrekin, Gail
    • Shea, Cathryn
    • Williams, Wendy
  • Home
  • Current Issue
  • Past Issues
    • September 2024
    • May 2024
    • January 2024
    • November 2023
    • September 2023
    • May 2023
    • March 2023
    • January 2023
    • November 2022
    • September 2022
    • July 2022
    • May 2022
    • March 2022
    • January 2022
    • November 2021
    • September 2021
    • July 2021
    • May 2021
    • March 2021
    • January 2021
    • November 2020
    • September 2020
    • July 2020
  • Cross-Ties
  • About
    • Arrivals & Departures
    • Masthead
    • Submit
  • Archive
    • Beal, Jane
    • Burch, Beverly
    • Case, Katherine
    • Gunton, Kathleen
    • Gutowsky, Connie
    • Kralowec, Kimberly
    • Lee, Priscilla
    • Lipshin, Irene
    • Rudd Entrekin, Gail
    • Shea, Cathryn
    • Williams, Wendy
Search by typing & pressing enter

YOUR CART

Cynthia Buiza

Local Time

Someone told me we are altered
whenever we cross the international
dateline. Subtle shifting, self-migrating,
transitions at 34,000 feet.
 
A few hours ago, places: Batangas,
Laguna, Cavite, Denpasar, Nagoya,
Okinawa. Names and syllables signifying
a continent’s humble contents.
 
Who was I then? The woman who decided
to cross a border and keep on crossing?
Erasing lines that blur and bind.
Her and here to one thing or other?
 
Honolulu. Juneau. Seattle. Portland. San Francisco.
Passing through. Vessel containing no longer bearing — 
who? Woman who boarded but did not arrive.
 
New and not new. In my heart’s map:
Caracaran, Rawis, Legazpi, Manila. You.
Stars and loss and longing, too. Lines I draw and
redraw. Misty, out of focus woman coming through.
January / February 2023

Cynthia Buiza /
Cynthia Buiza is the Executive Director of the California Immigrant Policy Center (CIPC). She earned a master’s degree in International Affairs from the Fletcher School at Tufts University, with a concentration on human security studies. She also holds certificates from the Harvard Kennedy School of Government and the Stanford Graduate School of Business. Cynthia currently serves as a California State Commissioner with the Little Hoover Commission and the CA100. Her debut poetry collection, The Future Is a Country I Do Not Live in, was released by Paloma Press in August 2022.
Art: Kimberlee Frederick. Better Than Biting My Tongue? Digital Collage, 2022
  
Powered by Women