At seventeen, he didn’t have permissionlike his friends to go under the ice,to dive down and seewhat the river held secret in winter So he sat on the bank instead, bundledand waiting for the two diversto come up from the jagged manhole—from “Ice Diving,” Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall 2020) Tell us . . .
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I am this nakedmineral:echo of underground:I am gladto have come so farfrom so much earth:I am last, barelyentrails, body; hands—from “XXIII” by Pablo Neruda, Translated by Karen Hilberg, Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall 2020) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.I studied poetry in college and was learning Spanish . . .
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I wanted to build a boat and launch for Amsterdam.Foxtrot on the upper deck in a moon-spangled frock.I wanted to hold the sky like a bowl, smudge the clouds.Bring a sentence to its knees. I moved to a spit of land on the coast.Lit a hurricane lamp in the window. Lined my . . .
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Last year a lonely possum crept into my bed. This possum has problems: booze, Benzos, Oxy, you name it. He’ll snort, smoke, or pop pretty much anything. He can’t pay his rent, but he’s good in the sack. At night he tickles the inside of my thighs with his whiskers till I . . .
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My friend Julia wanted to bask in fame, or wear it in her hair like a dragonfly wing, or maybe roll in it like a dog. Wouldn’t it be easier, I said, to just shake Fame’s craggy hand? I meant the poet, who had just finished reading. This happened at a snooty . . .
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Evanthe held still, her limbs pulled into awkward angles—one elbow cocked out to the side, the other braced against a root serving as tripod, both hands grippin the binocular’s rubber houseing hard enough she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to unbend them again. She didn’t dare readjust. Didn’t dare move her . . .
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When Angie answers a knock at our door, this girl, Molly, starts talking a blue streak, each word rendering Angie smaller and more pale until I finally understand what Angie must have from the beginning: this girl is her daughter, a daughter I know nothing about, an entire daughter Angie never once . . .
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Rain fell violently through the night. San Ye thought of the gravestones in Dongba, and the flesh and bones beneath, and the clothes and things buried with the bodies. The coffins must be swimming in slimy muck. . . he couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned until dawn, got up, and looked . . .
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“I don’t consider myself sensual,” Antonia said, pulling the sheet across her torso and stroking his hair. Miguel smiled without her noticing. He knew she was trying to draw out praise for her skin, her body, her lips. Antonia was provoking him. She knew she was irresistible. She knew that any movement . . .
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In Edinburgh I could not understand what the cabdriver said as he drove me to the restaurant, and inside the only person who would speak to me was a Lithuanian with pink hair, who leaned above her wine and whispered, nothing is familiar.—from “Wood and Wire,” Volume 61, Issue 3 (Fall 2020) Tell . . .
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