writing and creating in the wilderness of time, energy, devotion

This is who I am—Lucía. I am a writer and interdisciplinary artist of mixed European/Mexican/Indigenous heritage. I was born in a time when my parents lived and told stories at sea. I grew up among extended family rooted in Texas and Northern Mexico.

My current work takes influence from ancestral storytelling, the land, non-linear time, and the ephemeral nature of light and bodies and water to investigate barriers, borders, emergence, and escape.

I currently live and work on the land of the Narragansett people in Providence, Rhode Island, where I teach creative writing and am an MFA candidate at Brown University.


1:1 Writing Sessions

Unique coaching sessions tailored to individual projects, backgrounds, needs, and interests.

*new bookings closed until 2022*


Editorial Sessions

Content development, copy and line editing, proofreading—I’ve spent over a decade in the publishing profession honing these skills.

I’ve served as an editor for dozens of published books ranging in topic from business and history to fiction and lifestyle.

Learn more by getting in touch via the link below.


i have been listening to the leaves and making records on their surface. i have been allowing the shape of the leaf to shape the poem.

Today a new
just like
every day

are you listening
am I here


in seasons
in shifting time
we are shriven

poetry by moonlight

words recorded on
ever breakings
of veins


a whispered soul
my words
pierced and pricked


Today when I
met you
you pulled
that once

belonged to
me out from
under your shirt
and I held it and
for the rest of the
day I smelled you
on my chest


an excerpt

All starts and stops, frustrations, delays. All tokens too trite. All directions uncertain. Begin over and over and never finish. Listen, be quiet and still. There is always here the sound of running and rushing, water and air. What do you have today to give. Instead of reaching, what is already in your grasp. What must you let go of to take hold of the next thing. How do you know.

How do you focus on the page when all you want is just beyond the margins.

How much of a stranger you are, how much of a mystery. The thousand expressions I haven’t seen on your face. The way I can’t look closely at you for fear of giving myself away. For fear of you looking back. I want to be seen and do not, I want to be a better version of myself before you turn to look but I can’t wait for you to turn. I go still with longing. I hide. Surface. Vanish again.

It won’t always be like this. Many of the questions will be answered and I will learn what the answers look like when they are written on your face.


Go gently, enjoy the unraveling while you can. It will never feel like this again, and the pleasure of uncertainty, anticipation, newness, and unfurling are too sweetly ephemeral to miss.

This is not a story, this is not a poem, it is a long sighing, the emptying that takes place just before the next breath. It will come. It will come.

There is plenty to consider in the meantime. There is greening and ashes. The trajectory of a grapevine, a swallow, a crooked creek. There are paths through tall grass and forests and along cliffs that no one else walks but you. There is the shape of a shoreline and a pocket knife and a pillow and a cave. There is the music of night, of dawn. The press of the earth against your feet, against your spine, against your skull. There are threads unraveling from a sweater and a suitcase still unpacked. The clamor of rain. You can run your fingers through your own hair and swallow what you might have spoken.

Time passes differently when it goes unmarred. Your hair grows long and your skin turns brown in the sun and none of it matters. You can close your eyes and believe the world will still be there when you open them. Why not believe—it always has been before. You, who have so little reason to trust, such difficulty believing. Are the most difficult things the ones we notice or the ones we never do.

Fall asleep in faith. You expect to wake. You dream. You dream again of water. There was an island in that dream and you swam along its shores and stepped out onto rocky paths narrowing in tall golden grass, and there was a man in a house of timber and mirrors and he said I’ve been waiting.

Keep waiting.

But don’t always keep your eyes open. Like the rest of you, they need retreat. Close them and believe the world is still there, still watching you. You’ll never know for sure.

Hollows of blue and salt shimmers in the air that touch your tongue and make you speak of hidden things, things long forgotten, a gathering of stones beneath endless waves or a crevasse full of ancient wind, an insect song, the sushing rasp of grasses dry at the end of their time.

The places where the rocks plunge and offer to take you with them, so swiftly you might entirely disappear. The darkness blooming beneath the surface of skipping light and bright salt air. A single star that burns close and clear.

The next day, and the next. You think the days
are stacked before you, ready for your playing hand to take them up one by one and lay them out at your will, but you are wrong. They will tumble and fall, disordered and too swift, and refuse to reveal themselves or remain in your grasp or fall into any order or form. You will try again to stack them, remembering when they were full of promise, and they will evade you.

Though you were told not to, you will look behind you as you walk away and watch them turn to salt.