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SATORI The boundless child, eternal in the dying grass, is intent upon the infinite ant. She has forgotten the tomorrow she creates. The ant, fixed upon the pleasures of the queen, understands everything but what the child believes. The dog could not care less. He concerns himself with the cat and her dreams of pigeons, and sees clearly that love is the first canvas. This comedy is both sphere and vapor. Like the bright leaves of autumn, it is here for a moment and gone. SATORI La niña sin...

EL MAL POETA Hago a veces libros malos Los libros buenos ya no me gustan o tienen Demasiados seguidores A mí me gustan los libros solitarios Como una larga cuerda floja de vacío a vacío Que se pierde entre las nubes Hago a veces malabares La silueta se recorta Sobre el cielo azul sin sombra Todos por supuesto Incluso yo Me olvido “Vengo del país donde los corderos Visten piel de lobos” “Vengo del país de las citas apócrifas” Mis fantasmas son de utilería Y solo a mí por...

J’attends de voir si la nuit sera poreuse. Pour percer le secret, je danse sur le revers de la croûte terrestre, je sens la cohérence de l’ensemble aléatoire, j’émerge tel un pantin noueux du tissu brumeux de la naissance. J’ai vu tout ce qu’embrassait mon regard poussé depuis le genou légèrement plié, où l’impulsion bondit en moi. Je suis celle que l’on sait, connue des miens et seule parmi les autres. Je suis celle qui s’ignore et cherche encore la lune, qui perd de vue la lune chaque soir...

THE HORSESHOE CRABS IN THE INDIAN RIVER OWE ME AN APOLOGY The serration of an afternoon spent chucking mullet into the wind and coming up empty. If the fish aren’t biting, maybe it’s because the kids are playing in the water. Stepping without looking, planting their pioneer bodies right where they don’t belong. LOS CANGREJOS HERRADURA DEL RÍO INDIO ME DEBEN UNA DISCULPA El borde serrado de una tarde consagrado a arrojar salmonetes al viento y seguir con las manos vacías. Si los peces no han mordido, tal vez...

AUTUMN SETS In the paleness of my den ere I fix to light, muted on bricks and dusty curtains, a window faces upward bound, yet nothing in its recess but a cold absence, skeletal leaves left broken from summer. She left me. So I turn away to nothing but stairs leading to bent door, from some foundation swing until a jam never to open again. Her scent lingers. Trapped am I without a word spoken for my reprieve from darkness where I sleep. So I claw and hammer vibrations...

De la nostalgia y otros universos, una lectura de La huella del gnomon de Jesús Vázquez Mendoza Carmen Julia Holguín Chaparro Siguiendo La huella del gnomon, el lector se adentra por los trayectos, las precisiones y los olvidos de una voz poética que viaja mental, reflexiva, nostálgica y emocionalmente por veinte años de experiencias diversas. El recorrido, en medio de un gran tráfico, atraviesa países antiguos, ciudades bulliciosas, calles solitarias, espacios extraños, bares. Atraviesa fronteras, crea memorias, enfrenta silencios ante lenguas extranjeras, ante ruidos internos. Anda, también, entre brumas,...

NIGHTWALKING BETWEEN CENTURIES Somewhere between ends and beginnings alert to the scuff of a shoe in the shadows a block away, I walk the night streets of this city midway through self-demolition − half-metamorphosed half-decayed − passing shadows of my former self on streets where storefronts have shifted, signs altered, brick facades from another century caught in a bank tower’s funhouse mirrors. And turning a corner I sometimes glimpse the virtual, the becoming city as near in time as this red brick though barely imagined here at street level...

PASTORE DI SILLABE Quando le giornate si fanno buio l’ombra diserta i confini fa voce d’eguale mette i raggi al cielo perché pedali più in fretta Così tu dici quante parole restano sospese a lacrimare di solitudine come nuvole da ultimo si dissolvono se non fanno gregge Mi spingi a diventare pastore a riunire le sillabe disperse a farne corpo per assecondare la luce salvare con la bellezza il mondo PASTOR DE SÍLABAS Cuando los días se oscurecen la sombra abandona las fronteras hace una voz de lo mismo...

DOORS AND WINDOWS We’d given up the cat for dead, but a neighbor reported, a cavity beneath the porch of an empty house across the street had drawn cats before, her own once for ten days. On my knees I peered, heard mewing, coaxed her out musty and thin, carried her back; homecoming or capture. As I lay here tonight another leaf falls from the struggling avocado tree, root-bound in a bucket by the window, sucking in water the radiator robs relentlessly from her leaves. The cat cries at...

WASP IN A TRAP What trick is this room with no escape, this plastic cone hung from a branch? The wasp followed the sweet scent through the air’s various tripwires, and believed it found a heart, a host body? Attraction is as natural as repulsion, but what force keeps it crawling here, an instinctual scent, or a trapdoor, a way out? Because I haven’t found my way out of a body since birth, because you’ve taught me to see all the world as a trap, I now understand I...