by Anupam Singh, translated from Hindi by Areeb Ahmad Jens Peter Olesen A house opens like a prison. It closes like a prison. Silence has been scrawled on the faces of women, their breath held, crawling in my dreams. A man with a vain visage on whose face is visible many other faces. Lines of red tighten his eyes, laughter lies behind his moustache. This is neither a jail, nor is man a jailer. Still, it is a perfect prison. Who knows from what places women have been brought a

by Fereshteh Sari, translated by Parisa Saranj Amin Safaripour Sometimes when the day dwindles over the shoulders of despair, the dead missing their own memories sit by the window and the sound of their feeble joints cracking echoes in the blinds. They fall asleep on the hands of the clock, are crucified on the forgotten laundry lines and remember the days gone. By daybreak, they roll off with the old songs on their host’s tongue and depart. Fereshteh Sari (1956) is a writer

by Socorro Venegas, translated by Toshiya Kamei Thanos Pal nothing, nothing can be more bitter than the sea I carry inside, alone and blind, the ancient Oedipus sea groping me for all ages, when my blood wasn’t yet mine, when my skin grew on someone else’s skin when someone was breathing for me as I wasn’t yet born.— Xavier Villaurrutia The postmark told me the letter took only a week to reach me. Inside was a photo of Álvaro’s painting. On the back it read, “Come.” I stared

by Yanina Rosenberg, translated from Spanish by Ezra E. Fitz Alex Dadukin Lena flips through the pages of her planner until she reaches the telephone directory. The letter F. Still in her negligee and with cheeks wet from so much crying, she examines the number which—though she knows it by heart—she hasn’t dialed in nearly two months. What if he doesn’t answer? What if he doesn’t want to speak to her? What if he never wants to speak to her again? If you don’t want to talk to

by Nilay Özer, translated by Aron Aji Maksim Shutov I multitudo-i-am she said name of your land you stopped in the eyes of a hyena all is speedwhere are you when I say this the woodstove in the village teahouse is the epicenter of now a crack deepens in its marble you fall in writing is vertigo the soot smell in the bread the roads where rotting melons trundle these two must be related else why would they take refuge in the same sorrow at once feet sinking in the tracks left

by Nazli Karabiyikoglu, translated by Gozde Zulal Solak Cleyton Ewerton For Sezgin Inceel This is what I’ve lost. I cannot find me That I’ve caught at the nostalgic flow. Loss of innocence, corrosion of the body, inner shames. Circling in thoughts, With a sense as regret for a moment, but no, never. Songs, Genres don’t matter, permeated, leaked, saturated in the moment And with all these images, my childish or adolescent mind, offenceless Unprepared, while thinking I can eval

by Zeliha Cenkci, translated by Zeynep Senahan Yıldız さいとう/ saitousai I. pouring sleeping pills one by one sleeping pills inside the tomato soup one by one grater and blender. No. Parks and flowers my stomach was empty now getting full the things I go through not at once realizing not at once realizing I see the moon is full not at once realizing suddenly where i am my hairs have grown my mustache’s come out my butt’s bigger at once I’m ugly and at once pretty not at once rea

Stanisław Krawczyk Humiliation by Paulina Flores, trans. by Megan McDowell, Catapult, 2019, $16.95 paperback Reviewed by Scott Neuffer There is nothing more human than being humiliated, the feeling of being undone, when the careful constructs of the ego unravel in bewilderment. The word itself comes from the Latin “humilis,” meaning low, from “humus” or earth. It’s as though humiliation returns us to the primordial pain, clips our skyward wings, inters us once again in the m

by Estrella del Valle, translated by Toshiya Kamei Chelsea Aaron May he be born in November and bring us glory. And may he be announced by fire stars. And may the sky speak with a huge roar and may they go down. It was then commented that it was the final hours and four horsemen would ride again. Like in the days of Abraham. Like in the days of Elijah and Elisha, it’s the final hours of false kings. Split the river in two, remove the bones of his daughters from the bottom of

by Socorro Venegas, translated by Toshiya Kamei Serafima Lazarenko The girls left their homes very early. It was so early that the sun was still asleep and the roosters flapped their wings getting ready for their war song, the most powerful announcement. Sara is still inside her house, asleep. She’s dreaming of white lilies. The village streets are quiet, a full moon high up in the dark sky. The girls walk fast, with rebozos knotted around their shoulders, with bright eyes, l

by Joe Lamport Ueno Jakugen Now here’s a Great thing about An artist’s love For the universe: It’s wild and Indiscriminate And it can be Expressed in An infinitude Of ways It can hold Dominion In the slightest Change of An orchid’s pallor From day to day And when you Open yourself To the world’s majesty You hear it too In the bird’s Vigorous chirp And the raindrops Tapping on your shoulder So I’ll let the first Nen Take care of itself tonight On the long walk home While the r