Poet of the Month
Every month Moon Tide Press features a different poet to celebrate and bring readership to deserving, diverse voices.
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If you are interested in being featured as a Poet of the Month, or want to nominate a poet, please contact editor@moontidepress.com.
Peter Lechuga
April 2025
Peter Lechuga is a Chicano wordsmith, teaching artist, musician, PlantBasedgod, and Karaoke King born and raised in Southern California. As director of the non-profit, LionLike Creative Education, he teaches future generations the power of poetry, while creating a safe space for them to express themselves, find their own voice, and become published authors. He is the co-founder and editor of the new literary zine, ILL Poetry Anthology. His poetry has been shared on college campuses and has been published in No Pulp Poetry Club's Community Milk, Chaffey Review, and Inlandia Institute, amongst other publications. His debut poetry collection, Myth Opportunities, published by Daxson Publishing, is available now. When not reading, writing, or killing the mic, he can be found hiking in the mountains spitting freestyles.
XOCHIMIQUIZTLI
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In ritual war, boys held their clubs tight
and high into the wide sky. Jagged black
teeth, buried in wood, were licked clean by light
after they chewed flesh off other boys’ backs.
Weapons hungered like roaring bellies, flames
of sacred forest blessed breath. Young bodies
dragged slowly, they watched rivals do the same;
brothers floating through fields of red poppies,
remembered in chipped glass and bright, ruby
hummingbird throats. Captives sang of flowers;
words became petals dancing with duty.
Fate be fed; warriors never cower.
Taste the blood and carve the heat of the sun
from their chests; the obsidian and jade
eat for gods. We still sacrifice our sons
daily. A lie told, a decision made.
Mí abuelo his legs, my dad his knees.
Mí padrino, no flowery death among the trees.
CHICANO DIONYSUS
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I used to be a Dionysus.
When I was younger,
I’d watch all mi tíos drink, lose
control of their bodies.
Limp limbs swinging
like the lives of the parties
they were.
I wanted to be them.
Oldies booming,
watch how they
transform.
Arms grooving
with a beer
glass or
machismo oozing
all on the
dance floor.
I used to be a Dionysus.
When I got older,
I’d watch all mi tíos drink, lose
control of their bodies.
Limp limbs dangling,
a colostomy bag to potty.
Last drink
in an IV drip.
I still remember them
tripping
off-beat to La Chona.
Sipping
endless bottles of Coronas.
They’d leave glass mountain plots
in their wake.
Years later we’d take fountains of shots
by their graves.
I used to be a Dionysus.
Now,
I watch mí amigos drink, lose
control of their cars.
Limp limbs lying lifeless in the dark.
I will never forget them
being eighty-six’d
from every bar.
Killing twelve packs
then shredding on guitar.
You were so excited
about your new pedal.
If only I could fight it,
keep you away from that pedal.
I used to be a Dionysus
but here on out,
I simply refuse
to watch waning moons blur
into beating suns.
I’ve found it’s truly not worth
losing yourself or the ones you love.
Maenads mitote so vividly.
Broken bottles bleed out fragility.
I used to be a Dionysus;
however,
I abdicate my divinity.