Eloisa Avoletta

I lie down
in the face of what I’ll never be able to say
entranced by salt still existing in this battered body
I bet we weren’t able to name that rock a hundred thousand years ago
and she was rock in each stony fiber
she called herself rock until someone listened and said “rock”
until the silent sea wore away her firmness and made her sand
like her, I break up into pieces
I lie down
on earth
so still
so emergent
so everyone’s
the colors
that I feel
and am
a landscape, beating
submerged in its own echoes
in all our echoes


Me tumbo
Ante lo que nunca podré decir
Absorta de que aún exista sal en este cuerpo maltratado
¿A que no sabíamos nombrar aquella roca hace cien mil años?
Y ella era roca en cada fibra pétrea
Se dijo roca hasta que alguien la escuchó y le dijo “roca”
Hasta que el mar silencioso fue desmoronando su entereza y la volvió arena
Como ella me desarmo
Me tumbo
En la tierra
Tan quieta
Tan emergente
Tan de todos
los colores
Que me siento
Y soy
Paisaje latiendo
Sumergido en sus ecos propios
en todos los ecos nuestros

will praise


I Will Praise Your Plain Songs
Sarah Ruhl

I will praise your plain songs.
I will praise your plant songs.
You will give me weeds
and distraught calendars.

I will praise you for the things you choose:
the color of your shirts.
I will praise you for unchosen things:
the contour of your chin.

You will give me subscriptions, brevity,
towers of flat, sweet grass.
You will give me pointed flower arrangements.

When summer flags and ships slow
and I am tired of waiting, tired of praising
bits and pieces, thumbs and drawers—anatomy—
then I will praise you without purpose,
your empty hands, your hollow ear…

When your nothing things are incomplete
(when your nothing is complete)
the work of conspiring solitudes—
I will praise your nothing best and most of all,
I will praise you in the smallest, saddest words:
so, then, to, cup, go.



Tina Chang

My son rubs his skin and names it brown,
his expression gleeful as I rub a damp cloth
over his face this morning. Last night,
there were reports that panthers were charging
through the streets. I watched from my seat
in front of the television, a safe vista.
I see the savannah. Sometimes, though,
my son wakes to a kind of nightmare.
He envisions words on the wall and cannot
shake them. He tries to scratch them away
or runs out of the room but the words
follow him. None of it makes any sense
but it’s the ghost of his fear that I fear.

What is a safe distance from the thoughts
that pursue us and what if the threat persists
despite our howling? Buildings collapse,
a woman falls down the stairs and lands
on her back with only one eye open, half
awake to her living damage. I think
my son senses what is happening
on the street, his heart fiercely tethered
to mine. I know the world will find him
and tell him the history of his skin.
Harm will come searching for him
and pour into him its scorching mercury,
its nails, its bitter breath against his boyhood
skin still smelling of milk and wonder.

Somewhere, the panthers are running
starting fires fueled by a distinct hunger.
Somewhere there is a larger fire, a pyre
stoked by the fury of all that we have come
to understand, all that we could have done
but did not. Its flames lick the underside
of the earth. It propagates needing
only a frenzy of air to fan it to inferno.
I’ll call that the Forest. The deep woods
are ahead and if the panthers could just reach it.
If I told you that all of this happens at night,
you wouldn’t believe me. If I told you
all of this happens in the future, always
the Future you would continue following
the scent you could only describe as smoke.
I’ll call that Justice.

But aren’t we talking about mercy and its dark
twin? Isn’t that what is pummeling history
in the side as I write this? Isn’t it the thorn
and the taser? Isn’t it the chokehold
and the gold arm of vengeance? I say it
from my mouth and when it spills forth
it lands on the ground in a pool of light
reflecting back at me the one true blasphemy:
Love and love and love and love and
love and love and love and love and love
and love and love and love and love and
love and love and love and love and love
and love and love and love and love and
love is crowding the street and needs only air
and it lives, over there, in the distance burning.

the difference


The Difference
Ishion Hutchinson

They talk oil in heavy jackets and plaid over
their coffee, they talk Texas and the north cold,

but mostly oil and Obama, voices dipping
vexed and then they talk Egypt failing,

Greece broken and it takes cash for France not
charity and I rather speak Russia than Ukraine

one says in rubles than whatever, whatever
the trouble, because there is sea and gold,

a tunnel, wherever right now, an-anyhow-Belarus,
oh, I will show you something, conspiring

coins, this one, China, and they marvel,
their minds hatched crosses, a frontier

zeroed not by voyage or pipeline nor the milk
foam of God, no, not the gutsy weather they talk

frizzled, the abomination worsening
opulence to squalor, never the inverse.

you think this happened


You Think This Happened Only Once and Long Ago
Marie Howe

You think this happened only once and long ago?
Think of a summer night and someone
talking across the water,
maybe someone
you loved in a boat, rowing. And you could
hear the oars dripping in the water, from
half a lake away, and they were far and
close at once. You didn’t need to touch them
or call to them or talk about it later.
–the sky? It was what you breathed. The lake?
sky that fell as rain. I have been like you
filled with worry, worry — then relief.
You know the wind is sky moving. It happens all the time.

open up


Open Up, Genitalia
Ana Istarú
Open up, genitalia
like a consenting flower
Undo the latches of your retreat
the suffering swimmer to escape,
stop, don’t hold back
your fragile prancing,
open up with courage
like a balcony that emerges over the air
and shows off its geraniums.
oh shadowy well, your mystery.
Don’t halt its sailing voyage.
It doesn’t matter that your goodbye
pierces you like the north wind,
like an icy beam that houses
its splinters in your pelvis.
Open up, genitalia
turn yourself into a waterfall,
forget your sorrow.
Let it open for the child
that lives in your daydream.
Open bravely
your warm floodgates
to this honey ice cone,
to this animal that trembles
like a gust of wind,
to this wrinkled fruit
that will sink itself in the light with rage,
to search like a deer with eyes closed
for the nipples of the air, for the two breasts of the day.


Ábrete sexo 

Ábrete sexo
como una flor que accede,
descorre las aldabas de tu ermita,
deja escapar
al nadador transido,
desiste, no retengas
sus frágiles cabriolas,
ábrete con arrojo,
como un balcón que emerge
y ostenta sobre el aire sus geranios.
oh poza de penumbra, tu misterio.
No detengas su viaje al navegante.
No importa que su adiós
te hiera como cierzo,
como rayo de hielo que en la pelvis
aloja sus astillas.
Ábrete sexo,
hazte cascada,
olvida tu tristeza.
Deja partir al niño
que vive en tu entresueño.
Abre gallardamente
tus cálidas compuertas
a este copo de mieles,
a este animal que tiembla
como un jirón de viento,
a este fruto rugoso
que va a hundirse en la luz con arrebato,
a buscar como un ciervo con los ojos cerrados
los pezones del aire, los dos senos del día.



Tracy K. Smith

The sky is a dry pitiless white. The wide rows stretch on into death.
Like famished birds, my hands strip each stalk of its stolen crop: our name.

History is a ship forever setting sail. On either shore: mountains of men,
Oceans of bone, an engine whose teeth shred all that is not our name.

Can you imagine what will sound from us, what we’ll rend and claim
When we find ourselves alone with all we’ve ever sought: our name?

Or perhaps what we seek lives outside of speech, like a tribe of goats
On a mountain above a lake, whose hooves nick away at rock. Our name

Is blown from tree to tree, scattered by the breeze. Who am I to say what,
In that marriage, is lost? For all I know, the grass has caught our name.

Having risen from moan to growl, growl to a hound’s low bray,
The voices catch. No priest, no sinner has yet been taught our name.

Will it thunder up, the call of time? Or lie quiet as bedrock beneath
Our feet? Our name our name our name our fraught, fraught name.

Photo by Zhang Kenny on Unsplash



Jenny Molberg

He said he would hang himself
so as not to make a mess.

But he was still there the next day.
And the next. And the next.

He wrote the note for the cops
on a page he tore from my favorite book

of poems. That’s all I saw of it—
in absence—the ripped-out page

like a jagged fin down the spine.
What is my body but a rainstorm?

What are my bones
but flightless shards of light?

I did not feel secure,
though I married the only man

I believed was safe. Two children.
Three dogs. The dying cat.

Papers signed and unsigned.
The woman who pasted her face

over mine in our pictures
and mailed them as proof of their affair

before she tried to kill herself.
This, too, he does not tell me.

In the dream, he cuts
the air around my body

with a giant pair of scissors,
origamis me

until I am small as a ring-box.
In I go, with the rest

of my clothes, to the cardboard crate
where dress-sleeves stick out

like the arms of paper dolls. I nestle there.
I fold and fold. I try to disappear.

Photo by Jude Beck on Unsplash