“When the package arrived on Monday morning by overnight FedEx, a disturbance ensued. Mr. Rodrigo made an agitated phone call in his glassed-in sanctum, looking in turns horrified, elated, and apprehensive.”—from “Mr. Rodrigo’s Identification Company”, Spring 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 1) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I have . . .
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Like vegetation that findsshelter in so many territoriesI swell around the housesurge from your insides whenyou feel death coming—from “That Which Is Only Visible When the Wind Brings It,” Fall 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.Some years back I co-translated a short story . . .
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Now all the batterings sustained in gym after dusty gym,red wet faces shoved into his, thick leather mitts pummeling his flanks with a noise of meat being beatento submission look like one long drubbing tattooed into his skinyears ahead of each particular humiliation, while the carcassin the mirror is as scarred, he muses, . . .
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Say it.To smooth a section of one’s hairas if in an unsurfacedconvulsion.—from “In the Other Window”, Fall 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces you translated.With my co-translator Juan Meneses, I first translated “Two Poems about Poverty,” from Concha García’s 2008 collection, Acontecimiento. (Later, this translation appeared . . .
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“A rumor states that if you wait there for the devil, you can trade your soul in exchange for otherworldly guitar chops or a booming dentistry career or a lifelong tropical vacation. Those down-and-out enough are prone to superstition. They’ll believe just about anything. They’ll even believe that your average Sorbis is . . .
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“But to find women in heroic tales whose roles embrace something beyond spousal identity and dogged faithfulness, we need to move outside Mediterranean and Anglocentric circles. We must look north.” —from “Alone in the Center: Brynhild and Brünnhilde”, Fall 2018 (Vol. 59, Issue 3) Tell us about one of the first pieces . . .
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We tried everything: ovulation predictors, herbal elixirs, ten cycles of IVF, and one illegal Indian surrogate. I’m telling you this because I want you to know how we got to this dark room on the edge of the Navy yard filled with 3-D printed bio-wombs, among them my soon-to-be daughter.—from “Gen XX”, . . .
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“I was born with one eye. On the day of my delivery (June 6, 2004) the doctor and nurses at St. Alice’s maternity ward were ready and waiting for my arrival, equipped with their APGAR test, which stands for: Appearance Pulse Grimace Activity Respiration and is a rating of 1-10 for “newborn . . .
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The angel of the black bowl sets it on the table.The girl sits down. She will not eat. She wears a dress the color of her mother’s hunger.She does not believe in breakfast, dreamsthe eggs’ songs dead in their shells. —from “Morning,” by Sally Rosen Kindred, in Volume 59, Issue 3, Fall . . .
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Tell us about one of the first pieces you created.It’s 1949, I’m six years old, lying on the floor, thumbing through Life Magazine and I find a photo story on Jackson Pollock. Immediately I realize: that’s me, that’s who I want to be! The next day our first grade teacher surprises us with easels . . .
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