Poem of the Week | January 19, 2026

Javier Sandoval grew up in the Chihuahuan Desert of Mexico before moving across the American West & South, where he now teaches at the University of Georgia. His work has appeared in The Best American Poetry, Narrative, swamp pink, Gulf Coast, and Electric Literature’s The Commuter, and his chapbook Blue Moon Looming (CutBank), a Top Ten Debut selection by Latino Stories, was praised by National Book Award nominee José Olivarez as “poetry for the unruly, and yes, the brilliant among us.” But mostly, he loves to smoke on the stoop with his lady. You can follow him on IG at @JavierWantsCandy for tips, recommendations, and the occasional rant about language & snacks.

“Open Mic Night at Home Depot” by Javier Sandoval is our Poem of the Week.

Open Mic Night at Home Depot

AA’s great. Everyone helps each other out—
rides, jobs, free coffee. But what we really need
are more licensed handymen in recovery.
Otherwise, I gotta hire sober contractors,
and they cost even more than DUI lawyers.

So if you drink AND fix water heaters, please relapse near me.
I’ll leave a six-pack beside my busted sink. Or call my hotline:
1-800-FIX-THIS-SHIT. Meetings every Tuesday,
bring your wrench and your traumas.

            *

23andMe says I’m 60% Spanish,
40% Indigenous, and 100%
still gonna call my cousins like,
Told y’all I was the REAL one.

            *

Once, I texted my mom, What time was I born?
She shot back, Run from those white women, mijo!
And I should’ve listened, cause liberal ladies claim
they don’t stereotype, but the second they hear I’m a Taurus,
suddenly I’m lazy, stubborn, and eat too much.
Like damn, Willow, you ignored my rap sheet
but draw the line at my birth chart?

            *

People heal their inner child
with ice cream and cartoons.
But what if mine just wants
to set fires?     You ever seen
a grown man light a match
and whisper,   He’s back?

            *

In jail, I had to make a choice: join the white gang or the Mexicans. A whimsy
      really,
the Nazis would never take me, and it’d be a helluva sin against my mother—
she didn’t even like me kissing white girls—but when I saw a homie run a blade
down his face, mid-prayer, I thought,           Maybe I ain’t that Mexican.

Nazis act like being white’s a personality trait. Mexicans act like being Brown’s
a job. And it seemed like Nazis at least celebrated their members—
fun rallies, achievement badges, big bonfires where everyone’s dressed up.
Basically the Boy Scouts, but with even shorter shorts, and way more enthusiasm
for being shirtless. Meanwhile, joining the homies felt like Aztec-warrior training
without the glory—no golden shields, just a whole lot of unpaid labor
and getting your ass beat if you were late to burpees.

But right as I’m contemplating my first prison tattoo,
the charges get dropped, and I walk out
—having only joined the jail book club.

So now, when I see other kumbaya Latinx liberals
talk about unity and decolonization, I gotta wonder—how many
are just one wrongful arrest away from a Mi Familia tattoo
and a secret second family in Michoacán?
And when I see some white lady on the news ranting
deport all the immigrants—except my housekeeper,
I totally feel for her. She too must’ve been unfairly arrested
and forced to gang bang. She, too, must’ve gotten sat down
in a cold metal chair and forced to make The Decision:
Does she join her people? Or does she get shanked
by the Homeowners Association?

            *

Rednecks and Mexicans should really just be better friends.
We both love family, God, reliable propane.
Not to mention mullets, the WWE, and yards adorned
with vintage Fords—some on blocks, some just . . . parked creatively.
For us, being rich means our sons get ATVs, and our daughters—
well, they get married off . . . hopefully to other guys with ATVs.

            *

My mother throughout my childhood:
If you get tattooed, no woman will ever love you.

My lady now, flipping me flapjacks:
Oh, so you’re listening to your mother now?
A ring is nice, but my name on your neck says This man is taken.

            *

My poetry mentor’s actual real name
is Sonnet. So yeah, she had no choice
but to be a poet. That’s why
I’m naming my firstborn Billionaire.
Or at least Middle Class.

Author’s Note

Inspired by James Baldwin’s novels, where characters must ultimately refuse or risk recognition across lines of race, class, faith, desire, and regional culture, this poem gathers stand-up-style bits that dramatize moments of resistance within communities and unexpected recognition across them. Through humor, I hope to reflect on how different, or similar, we actually are to those who insist we are not. And, of course, to give people a chuckle.