my grippy socks are outside while inside  
the grey tube magnets orbit my head, 
the way I imagine seabirds circle a whale’s  
bubble net. A technician charts my mind’s 

grey furrows and I wander from my body.  
Is this how god would judge me: counting  
to see how long it takes my atoms to diverge 

then align with his magnetic field? Even  
with the machine’s exacting resolution, I don’t believe  
he’d see me. Better to remember watching humpbacks  
navigate and imagine how enskulled magnetite pulls 

them along earth’s magnetic field. Is it that I wanted 
the leviathan to see me, and perhaps god—the way I  
once saw a whale in Resurrection Bay? We were bound

by the light wave reflecting off us, buoyed by oscillating  
waves. Perhaps, there’d only be waves. I don’t need  
to be seen, but I need the whale, the waves, the certainty 
that we exist. Better to remember how I loved 

the corded phone as a teen, loved its tight coils, more elastic  
than they looked. I’d thread my finger through them,  
like stacked rings and bind myself to another’s voice, 
the limits of my romance. I didn’t know a compass

could encircle desire until my love replaced the cords  
with a single shining loop. This machine demands removal.  
Bereft, I remember how I lost myself following raspberries 
through the woods behind our home. I could not find my way.

I called and his voice found mine before we saw each other. 
I called and his voice found me.  

In the year of providence, in the year of vast greenery, in the rainy season, 
when the creeks tore through the mountainside and flooded the fields,  
when the rains cut great black gouges in the hill behind the church  
so the bones poked through where graves once were— 
In the chaotic days, in the days of mess and brilliance, in the scatter 
of bones, of coffin splinter and bits of cloth where we scavenged 
among the decayed in the afternoon mists—such treasures we  
discovered, coins with faces no one knew, a crucifix golden in the sun,  
a ring and a brooch. We were children and wild, enjoyed the muck and loam  
until the old priest waved his shotgun in the air and we scattered, laughing. 
And then such a silence while we hid among the roots and bones 
of the ancient dead. I have never been happier than that.  

+

I wrote those lines three years ago, imagining decay I’d never see, 
though perhaps you have lived something like it where you are, 
hundreds of years from now, when I have been forgotten. 
In that iteration, they are my own bones poking from the loam 
behind the wrecked churchyard of my imagination. And you, whom I’ll  
never know, pick happily through them for coins. I was thinking about this poem 
at the grocery store, by the refrigerated meats, I was thinking of my distant future, 
and you who live there, when an old man fell suddenly to the floor.   
He lay there beside a broken mayonnaise jar. When I knew he wasn’t hurt,  
I helped him to the bathroom, where I dabbed at his shirt  
with one of those brown paper towels that come on endless rolls.  
He was sweating. He smelled of wine. He offered me $5 for my trouble.  
I didn’t want his money, but I took it just to make him happy.

My father read a mountain aloud.

Opened to a page 
where a green bird lands on a thunderclap.

Named for the billowing hands of 
brittle blue flowers.

As if the unfinished poetry of the paraffin

is pulled aside like scenery, 
so that I may write by the only light I know.

My father read only his one life and recited 
the last line over and over.

The book is written in giant letters of fog 
that wander like goats across the alpine pastures.

The moon is dog-eared as if the treetops looking up 
have studied the idea of love too much.

On a page with some scattered pine needles, 
a voice goes on calling out to me.

My father learned to read 
in a one-room schoolhouse,

and never read a poem.

A little herd of lightning 
gets spoken out loud in the dark.

Change 
is scenic and sudden.

One year, I came home 
and all the leaves fell off my father.

After that, 
he was winter.

^{translated from the Spanish by Andrés Fernández}

^{(to my sister)}

(the deafening
sound
of the sea
comes 
between
us both)

I say to her:
I think
we’re
drowned

she replies:
no
We’re not
drowned

I say to her:
we’re lying
side by side
at the bottom
of the sea

she replies:
no
We are standing
on the shore

I say to her:
I truly
believe
we’ve
already drowned

she replies:
no
We are
breathing
just fine

I say to her:
for me
no 
air
comes
in

she replies:
I have air
for both of us

desacuerdo

 ^{(a mi hermana)} 

(el rugido 
ensordecedor
del mar 
se interpone
entre 
las dos)
  
yo le digo:
creo 
que estamos 
ahogadas
  
ella responde:
no 
No estamos 
ahogadas

yo le digo:
yacemos 
a la par 
en el fondo 
del mar

ella responde:
no 
Estamos de pie 
en la orilla
  
yo le digo:
de verdad 
creo 
que ya 
nos ahogamos
  
ella responde:
no 
Estamos 
respirando 
muy bien

yo le digo:
a mí 
no 
me 
entra 
aire
  
ella responde:
Yo tengo aire
para las dos

^{translated from the Vietnamese by Phương Anh}

to whisper.the flowers await eagerly 
night holds onto the traveler’s feet.a wafting scent
butterfly wings flash.moon echoes.wind rises
a shadow is growing.the lingering agarwood? 

you bend to pick up your shadow that was dropped 
sky and earth convulse in all directions
destruction weighs on my shoulders.endless
human lives have left behind sediments.a bud of scent

that night.was it the final night?
i lie, listening.to the trees and leaves call each other 
the flock of small birds on the branches.stop.singing
hiding in the heart forever a soul enchanted!

Đêm tận tuyệt (final final night)

kể gì.những bông hoa ngóng đợi
đêm cầm chân lữ khách.một làn hương
cánh bướm chớp.vang lừng trăng.gió nổi
bóng ai về vời vợi quá. trầm vương?

em cúi nhặt bóng mình vừa rơi xuống
đất trời như kính động khắp nghìn phương
niềm hư hoại oằn vai.vô lượng
kiếp người vừa đọng lại.một chồi hương

đêm hôm ấy.có là đêm tận tuyệt?
tôi nằm nghe.cây lá gọi nhau về
bầy chim nhỏ trên cành.thôi.không hót
giấu trong lòng mai mãi một hồn mê!

^{translated from the Italian by Gioia Guerzoni}

In the middle of a winter night 
my father who was not yet dead 
came to visit me in a dream as if dead. 
Wake me up I asked him but he hesitated 
and the terror that he liked death paralyzed me. 
Lift our eyelids—I said without a voice, 
let’s open our eyes wide on what is real. 
Tiredly—I knew he was struggling—I tightened his fingers 
around a dirty-green railing that needed repainting. 
Only then, I think he could feel my hands 
or maybe understand the work that remained: 
the iron to scrape the spatula the paint to choose 
he attempted his usual half smile. He let go 
and made me move on to another dream.

2022, gennaio

Nel mezzo di una notte d’inverno 
mio padre che non era ancora morto 
venne a trovarmi in sogno come morto. 
Svegliami gli chiesi ma esitava 
e il terrore che la morte gli piacesse mi paralizzava. 
Apriamo le palpebre—dissi senza voce, 
spalanchiamo gli occhi su quello che è reale. 
Con fatica—sapevo che faceva fatica—gli strinsi le dita 
intorno a una ringhiera verde-sporco da riverniciare. 
Solo allora credo sentendo le mie mani 
o piuttosto capendo il lavoro che restava: 
il ferro da scrostare la spatola la vernice da scegliere 
abbozzò il suo mezzo sorriso abituale. Lasciò la presa 
e mi fece passare a un altro sogno.

^{translated from the Dutch by Michele Hutchison}

for years the war has slept next to me in bed holding me in his sleep  
I have died for at least fifteen hundred nights 
in the morning he makes strong coffee with lots of sugar  
wears cufflinks and likes to strut around in high heels

I share my salt my wine without prejudice and dream with him  
he waves his cigarette holder and turquoise fingers 
drinks from gold glasses eats delicately from silver spoons  
leans on the doorway and leers with his shiny kohled eyes

in the heart of the night he plots and devises his offensive  
I see his ambitious plans and immediately cut off my tongue  
soft voices feed the arsenal inside his body 
he spins language into steely strands in his elegant hands

I plant fragrant jasmine around my throat as a border 
I embroider a cuirass from silver thread around my soft arms  
wild horses gallop across the brown flanks of my back 
I build an emergency hospital in the shadow of my breasts

I have observed the laws of war and foolishly awaited battle  
he wakes me up at the crack of dawn and leads me down to the kitchen  
stands behind me and stabs a heavy meat knife between my ribs  
the poison and the immense victories spread through my torso

he whispers crimson soft in my hair 
‘look, the first snow’ 
we can start counting the victims and the graves

oorlog

de oorlog slaapt al jaren naast me in bed houdt me vast in zijn slaap 
ik ben minstens vijftienhonderd nachten gestorven 
hij zet ’s ochtends vroeg sterke koffie met veel suiker 
draagt manchetknopen en paradeert graag op hoge hakken 

ik deel onbevangen mijn zout wijn en dromen met hem 
hij zwaait met zijn sigarettenhouder en turquoise vingers 
drinkt uit gouden glazen eet delicaat met zilveren lepels 
leunt in de deurpost en loert uit zijn glanzende khol ogen 

in het hart van de nacht beraamt en tekent hij zijn offensief 
ik zie zijn ambitieuze plannen en snijd onmiddellijk m’n tong af 
zachte stemmen mesten het wapenarsenaal in zijn lichaam 
hij spint taal tot stalen strengen in zijn verfijnde handen 

rondom mijn keel plant ik geurende jasmijn als omheining 
ik borduur met zilverdraad een harnas aan mijn zachte armen 
op de bruine flanken van mijn rug galopperen wilde paarden 
in de schaduw van mijn borsten bouw ik een noodhospitaal 

ik heb het oorlogsrecht nageleefd en dwaas gewacht op de strijd 
hij wekt me in alle vroegte en leidt me de trap af naar de keuken 
staat stil achter me en steekt een fors vleesmes tussen mijn ribben 
’t gif en de immense zege verspreiden zich in mijn romp 

hij fluistert karmozijnzacht in mijn haar 
‘kijk de eerste sneeuw’ 
het tellen van de slachtoffers en het graven mag beginnen

^{translated from the Spanish by Craig Epplin}

I come from fear 
I feed you dread,

I break the bread of shivers 
among your poor.

I hear boards creaking 
scratched by some perverse animal.

I step into the dark 
I sit in the midst of its dense back.

Sitting there I ask to hear 
your cruelest of stories.

I welcome terror, that somber bull, 
I fight for your name held in his jaws.

I taste the fruit whose coarse skin 
is eaten by beasts who’ve never tasted honey.

There’s no more bitter food
than the fruit of love traversed by doubt.

Ese Toro Sombrío

Vengo del miedo. 
con el pavor te alimento,

el pan de su escalofrío lo corto 
entre tus pobres.

Oigo maderas crujir 
por un rasguño de animal perverso.

Entro en la oscuridad. 
me siento al centro de su pastoso fondo.

Desde allí te pido que me cuentes 
tu historia más cruel.

Saludo al terror, ese toro sombrío, 
me disputo tu nombre entre sus fauces.

Pruebo la fruta cuya corteza rugosa 
comen bestias que no conocen el sabor de la miel.

No hay alimento más amargo 
que un fruto del amor atravesado por la duda.

^{translated from the Greek by Jackson Watson}

Here the days don’t dissolve in air 
they fall into the water 
shaping their own shell 
a sheen of separation. 
A hawk flies over summer’s body 
diving again, again 
feeding and drunk from the fall. 
There’s nothing here 
but manic wind alone and stones 
and sea 
a senseless promise 
sharpens our lust with the moon’s blade.

When I arrived here, in the landscape of endings, 
the wind entered my mouth with so much rage 
as if I were its only vessel 
until all my words vanished.

Each tree receives the wind’s gust differently 
some suffer, others—again—resist 
(I’ve met a palm tree that birthed the wind,
then sent it in every direction) 
others shiver all over and change colors. 
I, of course, am not a tree 
I sat down and wore the wind’s coat 
I stooped my head and looked at the ground 
through its cracks, thyme’s roots 
             & their hieroglyphics 
struggled to enter the light. 
Then the words came back.

Ταίναρο

Εδώ οι μέρες δεν διαλύονται στον αέρα 
πέφτουν μέσα στο νερό
σχηματίζοντας μια καταδική τουςστιβάδα 
Μια επιφάνεια διαχωρισμού. 
Ένα γεράκι πετάει πάνω από το σώμα τουκαλοκαιριού 
Βουτάει ξανά και ξανά 
Τρέφεται και μεθάει από την πτώση. 
Δεν έχει τίποτα εδώ
Μόνο τρελλό αέρα και πέτρες
Και θάλασσα 
Μια αναίτια υπόσχεση 
Ακονίζει τη λαγνεία μας με τη λάμα τουφεγγαριού.

Όταν έφτασα εδώ για πρώτη φορά, στοτοπίο του τέλους, 
ο αέρας έμπαινε στο στόμα μου μετέτοια μανία 
σα να ήμουν ο μοναδικός αποδέκτης του
Μέχρι όλες οι λέξεις μου ναεξαφανιστούν.

Κάθε δέντρο υποδέχεται διαφορετικά τονάνεμο 
Άλλα υποφέρουν, άλλα πάλιαντιστέκονται 
(έχω συναντήσει μια φοινικιά πουγεννούσε τον άνεμο και τον διένειμε
προς κάθε κατεύθυνση) 
άλλα τρέμουν ολόκληρα κι αλλάζουνχρώματα. 
Εγώ βέβαια δεν είμαι δέντρο 
Κάθισα κάτω και τον φόρεσα παλτό. 
Έσκυψα το κεφάλι μου και κοίταξα τοχώμα. 
Μέσα από τις ρωγμές του, οι ρίζες τουθυμαριού 
με τα ιερογλυφικά τους πάσχιζαν ναβγουν στο φως. 
Τότε οι λέξεις ξαναγύρισαν.