No entiendo los agujeros en el espacio En que se ven muy claro las lágrimas Sangrientas. No veo bien las caras Ignoradas de los niños llorientos. No Leo las leyes de mi país sincorazón. Editor’s note: this poem was originally written in Spanish and translated
Half the block is at funerals As my blossoms glisten heedless spring. I can vouch for millennials as if I know, in middle age, a goddamn thing. How would I know what it means to live in a city where fewer murders is a goal
This is the second poem in our series of poetry by Dr. Zackary Berger. You can read his first poem, Detachment, at the link here. Ritual What is the name for the nothingness you descend into in that moment before you take a seat say
The new blossom is born old. Each atom has met the inside of a distant furnace Vibrating with the fear of disintegration. There were me and two students, bending low over the man’s leg, its bullae. He used to be a ballplayer. I asked how