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manuel, about something he had seen

Nadija Rebronja
Translated by Ivana Maksić

he was having his dinner.

three poached eggs and some salad.
she was having a shower.
he sank, completely.
she watched him sinking

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from MOTHERSALT: A Lyric

Mia Ayumi Malhotra

X days

I’ve come unmoored from the hours. I crawl into pockets of time where there is none, lose a string of days without noticing. The weeks disappear like a dropped stitch.

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life of i

Elizabeth Spires

i.
i left the capital hurrying away i carried nothing
a dark night before me a dark dark night
but when morning came i stood free & alone
casting a seven-league shadow west

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I

Elizabeth Spires

You stand so straight and tall
and from afar you could be
a column, but up close I can’t tell
how tall you are. I run my hands

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Specific Plants

Adam Clay

Nothing much to speak of: they grow
Away from each other, not like this action
Should be seen as less of an existence.
Order in everything,

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Storm Watch

Adam Clay

A touch of madness mixed
With the news

& this moment feels like the new
Normal, the new slice

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Unburial

Thomas March

Because she never went
outside, and no one knew
whether she’d had her shots;
because the officers

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Beyond Temples

Martina Reisz Newberry

Once, when I owned my years,
I walked with my friend up a dirt road
that ended at a falling-down house where
two children sat on a slivered porch step.

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On Friendship

July Westhale

You left the door agape as a mouth, met me
in the middle of the road. Car red
as a throat, your hair on my tongue, your breasts
on my breasts—I hardly cry, but your body

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Teresa of Avila: Patron Saint of Via Negativa

July Westhale

We all feel like magical realism.
As if we may ascend, like Remedios Moscote.

Maybe we haven’t fathers to show us something pedestrian,
like ice. Nor the trajectory of a firing squad. We at least

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slim shadows

By Ulrike Almut Sandig
Translated by Jari Niesner

of the shimmer of the trees in the light I won’t
say anything, nor of the trees in themselves.

no word of the beech tree in the backyard of the doctor
whose daughter dies in the bedroom, no word

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Exile Camp

By Diego Valeri
Translated by Laura Valeri

Beaten, uprooted trees are we
upright but smothered, and this miserly land
that carries us is not our land.
Around us, the rock blows enemy

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Spider

By Geraldine Connolly

The one who swings the black star
of its body across the pane,
the one who keeps hanging its

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Cinder

By Geraldine Connolly

Bitter ash your voice, like a cinder
your voice like a motor, revving
and roaring and whining, still.
When you were young and penniless,

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The Unblazed Trail of Praise

By Bob Elmendorf

I’ve never seen the prairie. It must start
soon out of Buffalo, the farthest I’ve been west,
under whose streets Lake Erie, sharing shores
with Canada, flattens its sheet.

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VII. In the Heeling

By Karla Reimert
Translated by Patty Nash

On the way home sucking on bribes.
Nothing in the city to buy

I could ever need.
I want to go to the playground later, dangle

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IV. In the Clinic

By Karla Reimert
Translated by Patty Nash

I swallow tablets.
May all sensation bend tenderly
to my will.

The doctor talks loudly at me, his notes
gurgle and scrape. His speech is a giant organ.

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III. In the Heeling

By Karla Reimert
Translated by Patty Nash

Peppermint bonbons striped
white-red in the doctor’s bribe jar.

Say “Ah.”

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In the Room

By Iacyr Anderson Freitas
Translated by Desirée Jung

beyond these walls
the world exhausts

time is only
what is seen in the room

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Hinges slipping and about to give

By Marina Massenz
Translated by Johanna Bishop

I unwind my threads, unravel with
feigned patience inner skeins
in the drenched time, the heat transfixes
transforms the solid body

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We came out of the box only this morning

By Marina Massenz
Translated by Johanna Bishop

We came out of the box only
this morning joints and reflexes clack
clack all rusty getting into gear
slowly but surely in full operation

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Zunzuncito

By Luisa A. Igloria

It’s so quiet at night.
In these rooms, each one
prays in her own compartment

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And So Do the Trees

Carol Hamilton

The young artist grabbed up
industrial castoffs, plastic-backed
chairs, built edifices
to tower or confine, but soon

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Molecules

Martin Willitts Jr.

Light is not lush, or mute,
not even a combination of ghosts
rising from carpet
as a funnel of dust motes,

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Bind yourself to us with your impossible voice, your voice! sole soother of this vile despair.

—Arthur Rimbaud, “Phrases

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