Enfermas de siglo
Estábamos desesperadas y tristes
enfermas de siglo
Hablo de la juventud como de caballos sordos
como de cielos estallados
La carne aún es noble
y estamos servidas al borde de la …
Poetry
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Poemas de Juventud acerca del posconflicto. Rosita
De todos modos, las bombas caerán un día en la ciudad
no tendremos nada que envidiar a los campesinos macheteados unos añitos antes
bajaremos al subsuelo
propiedad del Estado
a buscar refugio
ya estaremos entrenados …
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My Grandmother’s House
Congratulations to Deborah J. Hunter, the 2022 Zócalo Public Square Poetry Prize Runner-Up for “My Grandmother’s House”
My grandmother’s house was made of
strong, black coffee cooked in white enamel
on gas burners lit with sturdy kitchen matches
of some unnamed wood with magical sulfur heads
that … -
del poema épico La algarabía/The algarabía
En el centro del ring gira un círculo más pequeño,
las llantas de un carro que corre solo.
Metemos el mundo en las peleas más sencillas,
invocadas sin matices.Es increíble …
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How You Livin?
like the air ain’t filled with
coarse windchimes
sirens loud as a jet in flightthe quick jabs
of a couple arguing about cheese
and face masks
and children at borders -
What the Fingers Do
My daughter learned to point
in a cemetery.
There were many deaths that year.The priests’ black shirts grew discolored from sweat.
Florists did well.
Pillowy, white fabric lined the open … -
for a jakarta microbiome
because do calls this house an ecosystem
where straddling folioles tangle mighty-fisted
along a wire canopy he strung
above the brick-and-pot garden, and city fox
coming like a client for bananas they feed it …
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and Sundays.
Sundays are for the depressed
half-naked
dancing in alleys
of fiction
of fructoseSundays are for feeling small
submerged in our dreamsmisty eyes
and
mild madnessgreen drapes
and
country musicSundays are …
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The Last Photo with My Father
At the threshold of the sitting room
Standing
On the only stair that separates the door and the floor
The device snappedThe father, his amaranth red bubu
The son, his … -
We Are Part of Those Who Keep Wake
We will keep wake up until the boundaries of insomnia
We will not sleep
We will pluck out the eyes of drowsiness
We will pull the bed away from naive … -
A Storm Like No Other
What storm is brewing
With the falling of dead stars
That lie along these alleys of sea foam?Suicidal waves
Rise and crash
Into the throat of a gaping gulf
Which … -
Hot Stepper at the Gates of Hell
who now pleads with the ancestors
seeing with naked eyes the gates of the deadwho now sees the impossibility of life
finding at last the answer to the questionand wonders …