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Rosa Chávez

We, stones, were branded by hot iron

By Rosa Chávez Ri oj ab'aj xkoj qetal ruk'a k'atanalaj ch'ich'
Xk'at ri qab'aq'wach //
Las piedras fuimos marcadas con hierro candente
quemados nuestros ojos //
We, stones, were branded by hot iron
our eyes scorched
Lois Beardslee

Manitogiizans/December

By Lois Beardslee When I asked my mother
If she could remember
What her mother's mother called December
Oliver de la Paz

Diaspora 2

By Oliver de la Paz The way is written in the dark:

it has steel in it, something metallic, a gun,

a mallet, a piece of machinery--

something cold like the sea, something,
Craig Santos Perez

From “understory”

By Craig Santos Perez kai cries
from teething--

how do
new parents
Allison Adelle Hedge Coke

First Morning Poem

By Allison Adelle Hedge Coke In a room facing chimneys
over the place Nancy Morejón rests
between sleeps lining free lines
she whispers to hearing DC:
Jody Bolz

Black Site

By Jody Bolz First, take away light.

Leave time—but make it dark,
disordered. Make it sleepless.
Not day, not night.
Juan Carlos Galeano

History

By Juan Carlos Galeano In the north we hunted many buffalo
whose lard warmed us all winter.

But in the jungle they told us that to bring more light
Ruth Irupé Sanabria

Hija

By Ruth Irupé Sanabria I am the daughter of doves
That disappeared into dust
Hear my pulse whisper:
Elizabeth Hoover

Làt-Kat

By Elizabeth Hoover Ñuul, the teacher says and smacks his knee to show
where the stress falls. Ñuul, the children repeat each
starting at a different time so they sing a sour chord.
Persis M. Karim

Ways to Count the Dead

By Persis M. Karim Take their limbs strewn about the streets—
multiply by a thousand and one.

Ask everyone in Baghdad who has lost
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