by Elizabeth Monreal

Your blood was the deepest red my town had ever seen  
But your face remained that of an angel’s,  
White and soft, untouched by death. 
The sun kissed your cheek,  
Not wasting a beam of its light on anything else. 
You remained golden, you remained bright  
Even as we died slowly in darkness. 
 
Your laughter haunts this town.  
They say it was like honey, like morning dew. 
And now all of this has become you: 
The whisper of rain, the dim glow of fireflies, the fragrance of flowers 
Adorning the gentle earth that your shadow once touched.  
​
Your goodness haunts this town.  
Your body makes this earth fruitful, 
But your grave makes all your mourners blind to its beauty. 
The absence of your soft soul  
Warming their desolate streets  
Made a wasteland out of a paradise. 
This you would not recognize as your town.  
 
Your legend echoes from here to Guadalajara  
And no city escapes you.  
They named their sons after you, Gabi. 
Their tears fill up their wells. 
You keep them nourished even in their melancholy.  
Here, a foreigner might hear your name  
Taken by the wind and think you are a god 
“Is he a martyr? Is he a saint?  
Who is this Gabriel you all worship so?” 
You are the last good thing  
Anyone will ever know of this town. 
 
Gabi, if this must be your death, 
Let it be your last.  
Because in all the years after, they still tell your story here 
And you still die at the end of each retelling.  
But when the melody of your footsteps  
Walks your mother back home at night,  
We know the sun will rise once again on this town.  

​Gabriel “Gabi” Contreras Ruiz died in a car accident when he was fifteen years old. He was on a class field trip, riding in the trunk of a classmate’s truck with several other classmates. On the way to Teocuitatlán, the truck hit a rock, causing it to flip upside down. All of the children were hurt, but only Gabi passed away. The people of Cítala continue to remember him as a force of goodness in their town.

by Kevin Irigoyen Penatello

Conocí a Iván en los años ochenta del siglo pasado. Neeli Cherkovski me sugirió contactarme con Iván, poeta mayor y bibliotecario políglota de UC Berkeley. Me dio un ambiguo retrato: afirmó que llevaría una chamarra de mezclilla azul y el pelo alborotado sobre la frente, con un copete cayendo lacio sobre los anteojos. Esa imagen no ha cambiado en casi medio siglo.
 
No lo he olvidado. En el caudaloso río de estudiantes que cruzaban Sproul Plaza, la explanada central del campus, vi a una persona que caminaba lentamente, libro en mano, leyendo. Lo que más me impresionó fue que pudiera caminar y leer a la vez, sin alterar el tráfico estudiantil. Un ojo al gato y otro al garabato. Era Iván Argüelles.
 
Hoy en día, los jóvenes manejan y textean, atienden a una clase y mandan correos electrónicos y selfies al mismo tiempo. Se jactan de ser la generación de los delfines, que pueden mantener cinco conversaciones simultáneas y estar atentos a todas, inmaculados. En aquella época, éramos distintos. Nuestros padres nos educaron al ritmo de adagios como: “El que come y canta, loco se levanta.” “Concéntrate.” “Una cosa a la vez. Lo demás es caos.” Tal vez Iván Argüelles se adelantó a su tiempo o, más bien, siempre ha sido atemporal. Maneja con destreza sorprendente muchas lenguas: griego, latín, sánscrito, hindi y bengali, inglés, español, francés, portugués, italiano, alemán, catalán, rumano, etc. Y piensa en todas ellas, sin mengua. Alguna vez le pregunté cómo podía sostener su conocimiento de tantos idiomas. Me comentó sin inmutarse que alternaba los días y leía un poema o fragmentos en las lenguas que conoce. Es una costumbre que guarda desde que lo conozco.
 
Jack Foley escribió en 2010: “Iván Argüelles es uno de los más finos poetas de este siglo; sin embargo, sólo lo conocen unos cuantos de sus apasionados partidarios. Su obra es ‘difícil’ pero no más difícil que la de otros poetas más conocidos, y su poesía es mejor que la de ellos.” Su estética se ancla en la imagen vertiginosa, anacrónica, multidireccional y explosiva. John M. Bennett afirma que debemos leer la obra de Argüelles “con una manera nueva de pensar / with a new mind-set.” Y añade este fino consejo: “Uno debe dejarse llevar, “ahogarse” en el océano de esta sorprendente y proteica obra, y ser receptivo a todas las ambigüedades y contradicciones que contiene.” En muchas instancias, Argüelles se vale de monólogos dramáticos--siempre con una especie de máscara—y “una suerte de conciencia surrealista desnuda” que (afirma con acierto Jack Foley) deliberadamente busca, como Yeats, “the face I had / Before the world was done.”

​El método de Argüelles es inmediato y visceral. Hay que captarlo antes de entenderlo e incluso “no entenderlo.” Su poesía es panóptica y diacrónica: es decir, puede referirse, sin cortes transversales, al Gilgamesh y a olvidadas diosas fenicias, o recordar a su hermano gemelo subiendo las gradas de la pirámide de Teotihuacan, monologar con Caballo Loco, retratar a Dante, invocar los ojos de Elizabeth Taylor, silbar una tonada de Elvis Presley o un concierto de Mozart, monologar con Astolfo en la luna, o meditar sobre la nave de David Bowie que acaba de dejar el planeta y estalla en medio del polvo sideral. Sus imágenes son desaforadamente despegadas del significante y las palabras resuenan en múltiples lenguas, lanzadas sin sentido hacia inesperadas direcciones, como en una erupción gramatical de lava incontenible que, a sus 83 años, todavía arde y no se detiene.

Afirmé que su poesía es panóptica y diacrónica. Lo reitero. En aquel primer almuerzo del siglo pasado, en Larry Blakes, uno de los templos del blues desaparecidos, Iván Argüelles me regaló varios de sus poemarios; entre ellos Instamatic Reconditioning – Recondicionamiento instamático (1978), un título que todavía hoy no alcanzo a comprehender de manera cabal. Ahí encontré un poema admirable que ejemplifica los adjetivos que menciono. Se trata de “Antes de que llegara el Buda.” En esa visión panóptica hay algo misterioso que mueve fibras sensoriales arcaicas. Hoy se habla de memoria ancestral o información genética. El lector tiene la sensación de que Iván Argüelles estaba allí, en la más recóndita prehistoria, entre las primeras manadas de seres humanos, colgado de una rama, en espera del Avatar que otorgó conciencia al mundo. Tal es la plenitud y convicción de sus palabras. Con ese poema abrimos esta antología.​

A memento of the translator and the poet meeting in San Francisco in front of City Lights Books: Neeli Cherkovski, Iván Argüelles, Steven Schwartz and Arturo Dávila, ca 1986

I met Iván in the 80s of the last century. Neeli Cherkovski suggested that I contact Iván, a major poet and polyglot librarian at UC Berkeley. Neeli gave me an ambiguous description: he stated that Iván would be wearing a blue-jean jacket, his hair tousled on his forehead with a pompadour falling straight over his glasses. That image has not changed in almost half a century.

I have not forgotten it. In the mighty river of students that crossed the central Sproul Plaza of the UC Berkeley campus, I saw a person who was walking slowly, book in hand, reading. What impressed me most was that he could walk and read at the same time without disrupting student traffic. Un ojo al gato y otro al garabato. It was Iván Argüelles.

Today, young people drive and text, attend class and send e-mails, snapchats, and selfies at the same time. They take pride in being “the generation of the dolphins,” who can hold five simultaneous conversations and be attentive to all of them imperturbably. In our time, we were different. Our parents raised us to the rhythm of adagios like: “He who eats and sings his brain spins.” “Excess is no success.” “One thing at a time. The rest is chaos.” Perhaps Iván Argüelles was ahead of his time or, rather, he has always been timeless. He handles many languages ​​with surprising skill: Greek, Latin, Sanskrit, Hindi and Bengali, English, Spanish, French, Portuguese, Italian, German, Catalan, Romanian, etc. And he uses of all of them interchangeably. I once asked him how he could sustain his knowledge of so many languages. He told me without flinching that he read a poem or fragments in each of the languages he knew every day, as much as possible. It is a habit he has kept since I have known him.

​Jack Foley wrote in 2010: “Iván Argüelles is one of this century’s finest poets, yet he remains known to only a few passionate partisans. His work is ‘difficult,’ but it is no more difficult than the work of many better-known poets--and his work is better than theirs.” His aesthetic is anchored in vertiginous, anachronistic, multidirectional, expansive, and explosive images. John M. Bennett states that we must read Argüelles’s work with “a new mind-set.” He adds this fine piece of advice: “one has to allow oneself to be ‘drowned’ in the ocean of this stunning and protean work and be receptive to all the ambiguities and contradictions it contains.” In many instances, Argüelles makes use of masked dramatic monologues and a naked surrealist unconscious that, according to Jack Foley, deliberately reveals, like Yeats, “the face I had / Before the world was made.”

​Iván Argüelles’ method is immediate and visceral. You must grasp it before you understand it and even “not understand it.” His poetry is panoptic and diachronic: id est, he can refer, without cross sections, to Gilgamesh and forgotten Phoenician goddesses, or remember his twin brother climbing the steps of the Teotihuacan pyramid, engage in a monologue with Crazy Horse, portray Dante, invoke Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, whistle a tune by Elvis Presley or a Mozart concerto, ride with Astolfo to the moon, or meditate on David Bowie’s ship that has just left the planet and is about to explode in the middle of the cosmic dust. His images are wildly detached from the signifier and the words resonate in multiple languages. They are thrown aimlessly in unexpected directions, as in a grammatical eruption of irrepressible lava that, at age 84, still burns incessantly.
​
I had previously stated that his poetry is panoptic and diachronic. I repeat this affirmation. At that first lunch with him at Larry Blake’s in the 80s, one of the longtime temples to the blues in the Bay Area, Iván Argüelles gave me several collections of his poetry, among them Instamatic Reconditioning (1978), a title that I still cannot fully understand today. I found an admirable poem that exemplifies the adjectives I mention in this collection. It is titled, “Before the Buddha came.” In the poem’s panoptic vision, there is something enigmatic that moves our ancient senses. Today we talk about ancestral memory or genetic information. The reader has the feeling that Iván Argüelles was there, in the deepest prehistory, among the first troops of human beings, hanging from a branch, waiting for the Enlightened One. Such is the fullness and conviction of his words. We open this anthology with that poem.

Arturo Dávila S.
Laney College
Oakland, California
February 2023

1.- Before the Buddha came
 
there were many of them
sleeping on the trees
or awake just watching from a
silvery distance the glistening backs
of animals
as if preparing the idea of the hunt
faces composed of aspirin and fur
teeth like combs riveted into
the shoulders of their mates
drawing a slow dream-like fluid
with which to tread the new moon
 
they have forgotten the dusky witness 
of the stars
now dwindling like orbs of dust
in the back mind of the sky
they have come down to the ground
to spend years inside the hides
of what they have killed
soon they will be persons
inventing units of thought or
describing parallel selves with which
to explain the strange inconvenience
of dying
 
1.- Antes de que llegara el Buda
 
había muchos de ellos
durmiendo en los árboles
o despiertos tan sólo mirando desde una
distancia plateada las espaldas relucientes
de animales
como si prepararan la idea de la caza
caras compuestas de aspirina y piel
dientes como peines clavados en
los hombros de sus compañeras
dibujando un fluido lento como un sueño
con el que pisar la luna nueva
 
han olvidado al testigo oscuro
de las estrellas
menguando ahora como orbes de polvo
en la mente oculta del cielo
han bajado al suelo
para pasar años dentro de los cueros
de lo que han matado
pronto serán personas
inventando unidades de pensamiento o
describiendo seres paralelos con los cuales
puedan explicar el extraño inconveniente
de morir

19.- Buffalo
 
under our feet
the grass has stopped rolling
a single cigarette undoes the leaves
metal appears for no reason at all
where we need to sleep
the horizon disappears in a zipper
our hooves sink in miles of paper
a thin flame piercing us
flank to flank
catalogs the function of our skin
 
in a still pool
somewhere to the far west of here
a god with a sky blue jaw
with creosote heels
with celluloid eyes
with a magnificent tin lapel
and a railroad ticket that works like a clock
is eating the last of us
   
19.- Búfalo
 
bajo nuestros pies
la hierba ha dejado de rodar
un solo cigarrillo deshace las hojas
el metal aparece sin razón alguna
donde necesitamos dormir
el horizonte desaparece en un ziper
nuestros cascos se hunden en millas de papel
una fina flama que nos atraviesa
flanco a flanco
cataloga la función de nuestra piel
 
en un estanque tranquilo
en algún lugar al lejano oeste de aquí
un dios con mandíbulas azul cielo
con tacones de creosota
con ojos de celuloide
con una magnífica solapa de hojalata
y un boleto de tren que funciona como un reloj
se está comiendo al último de Nosotros

22.- Illegal Sintax
 
where there can be only confusion... sleeping among the dead the glorious
ones who came through fire remembering the shore
where the shadows grew warm… dreaming in the dark oak-groves
strangling in the ivy childhoods already violent with the future
gods incarcerated in the pinnacle where a reading continues daily
about the seas underfoot about the paths divine about the morphology
desperately convulsed... orgasmic messages to earth the humus
the detritus of that other reality ... watching the screen for some
real significance for that burning for that ultimate signal on high
as they bring their barks to this strand exhausted with the lie of delivery
cattle in the meadow of their memory… bleeding hospices… dung
ancient with a forgotten tradition how they lift their palms waving
that one great feather of pampas grass and it is night already
not the mild one with fragrances and the calling of exotic birds
but the ruddy treacherous one where the planets acknowledge aloud
the illegal syntax the dread omens… falling from the heavens
the once considered pure the body and spirit      the demi-gods
“how can I touch the consecrated moment of     the imminent echo?”
… sluggish the source of the Meander the water of tragedy
where they stepped convinced this is the hour or the life of Noon
the meridian of philosophy the Holy the exchange of the sexes
…………………………………………………….
 
what kind of guilt is blindness combined with total recall of the visible?
each leaf extends its oratory to the eternal optic nerve…
the sea returns its buried to the skin of the Universal Day
and all around they cast their illicit glances waiting for History
to incarnate them those for whom the Republic was an uncultivated Vine
… the azure the crown the ring of day-stars dripping fiery dew
Enigmas… who can elude their passionate and embryonic solitude?

22.- Sintaxis ilegal
 
donde sólo puede haber confusión... durmiendo entre los muertos
los gloriosos que vinieron desde el fuego recordando la orilla
donde las sombras se calentaban… soñando en los oscuros robledales
estrangulando infancias de hiedra ya violentas con el porvenir
dioses encarcelados en el pináculo donde una lectura continúa diariamente
sobre los mares bajo los pies sobre los caminos divinos sobre la morfología
desesperadamente convulsionada…  mensajes orgásmicos a la tierra el humus
los detritus de esa otra realidad… mirando la pantalla para buscar algún
significado real alguna quemadura alguna señal definitiva en lo alto
mientras traen sus ladridos a esta ribera exhaustos con la mentira de la entrega
ganado en el prado de su memoria… hospicios sangrantes… estiércol
antiguo con una tradición olvidada cómo levantan sus palmas saludando
a esa gran pluma de hierbas de la pampa y ya es de noche
no la suave con fragancias y el canto de pájaros exóticos
sino la rojiza traicionera donde los planetas reconocen en voz alta
la sintaxis ilegal los temibles presagios… cayendo desde los cielos
los una vez considerados puros ¡el cuerpo y el espíritu los semidioses!
“¿cómo puedo tocar el momento consagrado del eco inminente?”
… perezosa la fuente del Meandro el agua de     la tragedia
donde pisaron convencidos de que ésta es la hora de la vida El Mediodía
el meridiano de la filosofía El Sagrado el  intercambio de los sexos
…………………………………………………
¿qué clase de culpa es la ceguera combinada con el recuerdo total de lo visible?
cada hoja extiende su oratoria hasta el eterno nervio óptico…
el mar devuelve sus muertos a la piel del Día Universal
y a su alrededor lanzan miradas ilícitas esperando la Historia
para encarnar en ellos a aquéllos para quienes     la República era una vid inculta
… el azur la corona el anillo de estrellas diurnas goteando rocío ardiente
Enigmas…. ¿quién puede eludir su soledad apasionada y embrionaria?

Iván Argüelles is the author of many books, including: “That” Goddess; Madonna Septet; Comedy , Divine , The,; Fiat Lux; Orphic Cantos; Tamazunchale, and many others. Born in 1939 in Rochester, Minnesota, he has lived variously in Mexico City, Chicago, New York City, Macerata, Italy, and settled in Berkeley, California. A retired librarian, he was employed by the New York Public Library and The Library of the University of California at Berkeley. His collection, Looking for Mary Lou, received the 1989 William Carlos Williams Award from the Poetry Society of America. In 2010, he received a National Book Award from the Before Columbus Foundation for his early selected poems, The Death of Stalin. This collection, Sintaxis Ilegal, written in English, was translated into Spanish by Arturo Dávila and published by the Universidad Autónoma de Nuevo León.

Arturo Dávila S. is Chair of the Department of Modern Languages at Laney College in Oakland, California. He specializes in contemporary Latin American poetry and Colonial Literature (the conquest of Mexico). He is poet laureate in Spain and Mexico where he won the following prizes for his books: La ciudad dormida (“Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz” Prize, México, 1995), Catulinarias ("Antonio Machado" Prize, Spain, 1998), Poemas para ser leídos en el Metro (“Juan Ramón Jiménez” Prize, Spain, 2003), and La cuerda floja (“Nicolás Guillén” Prize, Caribbean Philosophical Association-CPA, 2015). Some other publications include, Alfonso Reyes entre nosotros (UANL, 2010), an extensive prologue on poems by the same author, Homero en Cuernavaca (2014), the anthology La Tinusa. Poetas latinoamericanos in the USA (Aldus-Secretaría de Cultura, 2016), Sátiras (Hiperión, Spain, 2017), and more recently Tantos troncos truncus (Casa Vacía, 2020), and También garganta el mar (Casa Vacía, 2023). At present he is compiling a second anthology of 21st century Latin American poets living in the USA and doing research on pre-Hispanic codices and re-visions of the conquest of Mexico. 

by David Vela

Spring comes hard with alacrity, whether we like it or not.
You came as hard on me with grace and tender touch
Of maternal care that burned into passion and bloomed
Bright red, orangefire, white, gold, then rosegray.

Your classic pose of leg over leg, left over right
From that time you kissed me when I was twenty-two
And you ripe, full-blossomed woman of twenty-six,
Stays with me even in dreams of you sad,

Even as you repeated that pose last year at the roses that mirrored
Your beauty when Death and Eros, twins at birth
Visited us, made us whole, each one healing
The other, tutelary deities, ancestors, overseeing us

In my mother’s bed, in my mother’s room, you on her side
I on my father’s, we asleep after lovemaking, my hand in your
Hand, arm draped over your head, our hands over your heart.
And my heart all yours.

Though most of that time we had was bright, the happiest
Of my life, fue - was so short-lived but so few so much
Will ever live a passion so full - we knew, know, and I like
Orpheus lament this so; The snake who took you, bit your heel

Was your mother, your conscience, your daughters, your
Sister, your niece, your nephew and your past. The light
You brought me was greater than any other, Tantric, ancient
De los ancestros y del más allá, fulfilling, bright, dwarfing

Any other erotic love, wrapping mother, sister, prima
Amada, esposa, bruja, creadora y destructora all in one.

David Vela, born and raised in Las Vegas, Nevada, now resides in Northern California where he writes poetry, short stories, book reviews and interpretive essays of literary criticism. David has taught in Paris where he researched and lectured on the Modern Intellectual and did research at the Institut du Monde Arabe. He taught for 22 years in the English Department at Diablo Valley College and previously at Dominican University, both in the San Francisco Bay Area. He has been a military veteran advocate throughout his professional career as teacher and writer. His two manuscripts, Irish Literary Influence on Jorge Luis Borges, and al-Andalus: What we inherit from Muslim and Jewish Spain in Jorge Luis Borges’ and Carlos Fuentes’ writing merge his interest in Latin America, Spain and Ireland.

por Lindsay Marin

Ahi Nos Quedamos
 
Sales a caminar no importa la hora,
Se te suelta el nudo al pisar en el charco,
El movimiento alrededor se acaba,
Las vibraciones de las cuerdas transmiten,
Música brindada por la orquesta voladora,
Brisas en la pista amplia,
Escaleras hechas de nubes,
Desciendo, el baile eterno.

Invitación
 
Viajemos sin urgencia,
Pisemos por diamantes abundantes,
Marcadas por el grito del sol,
Magnificadas por el cabello de la tierra,
Se llega a la catarata,
Que deja espumas intocables,
Al míralas, te concentras en el centro,
Y ves el diamante,
Algo fascinante,
El antecedente del río farsante.

Seguimos Corriendo
 
Lo más que corremos,
Lo más que alcancemos a correr,
La cuerda sigue arrastrando,
Varios cayéndose en la grama,
Quien decidió competir en el concreto,
Pedazos de grama rodeados en la pista,
Recogidas por el arbitraje,
Para no dejar respirar,
El cielo nunca nos abandonará,
Lo único que no se deja tapar.

Lindsay Marin works in clinical research in New York City. He is a recent graduate of Rutgers University where he majored in Microbiology. He is of Colombian background and currently resides in New Jersey. This is his first poetry submission.

por Adriana Gordillo

​Inmigrante
 
Este vacío en el pecho
No sabe a quién llenar.
Crece poquito a poco,
se va hinchando
hasta dar fruto
a un llanto suave
ahogado con gemiditos grises
y pálpitos acompasados
que se ocultan en cada esquina
de este hogar
lejos del hogar
al otro lado del mar

Problemas de lenguaje
 
Un muro de silencio se erige entre nosotros
cada vez que tu miedo y mi temor
se encuentran.
 
Dicen por ahí que es un problema de lenguaje.
Que tu inglés y mi español no se entienden.
Que tu mundo y el mío se desconocen.
 
No les creas.
Nuestro problema es la certeza
de nuestros mundos
 
Y tu solución
es ignorarnos

Adriana Gordillo es colombiana de nacimiento y vive actualmente en Saint Paul, Minnesota. Trabaja como profesora de español, literatura y cultura latinoamericana en Minnesota State University, Mankato. Ha publicado poemas en las revistas Alborismos y Letras Femeninas. Ha recibido premios de poesía como el premio Victoria Urbano (2011) otorgado por la Asociación Internacional de Literatura y Cultura Femenina Hispánica (AILCFH) y Voces nuevas de la Editorial Torremozas en 2014. Adriana es también una entusiasta de las artes visuales y algunas de sus fotografías han sido exhibidas en eventos artísticos en Minnesota.

​Tikkun Olam: To Repair the World

La Dolorosa/Virgen de Guadalupe altar in honor of the 21 victims of the Uvalde, Texas, elementary school shooting.

La Uvalde Dolorosa bears the pain of 21 bleeding wounds for the 21 victims: Her Sacred Heart skewered with 7 daggers and 14 large swords piercing her chest and abdomen.

The Uvalde pieta banner is draped across her lap.

La Dolorosa/Virgen de Guadalupe wears the crown of thorns from the crucifixion.
 
Behind La Dolorosa is her flaming aura of La Virgen de Guadalupe.

La Dolorosa's green cloak of La Virgen de Guadalupe has turned to ultramarine blue with white stars.

Her white gown is marked by the bleeding flow from her Sacred Heart and abdomen to form the red and white stripes of the United States flag.

Above and behind La Dolorosa is the cross of the crucifixion carved into the Uvalde oak tree from the City Seal of Uvalde, Texas.

The 21 Doves above La Dolorosa/Virgen de Guadalupe are the ascending souls of the Uvalde victims.   
​

George Yepes, born in a cross-fire hurricane beneath a meteor shower over Baja, then raised and educated in the crucibles of East Los Angeles, the meteoric double-barrel life of Painter/Muralist, continues to burn beyond the Los Angeles art world. Formed by a hard street life of poverty, and gang violence; this painter not only survived the gang violence of East L.A.’s toughest neighborhoods but he has also risen above and beyond the Chicano genre. Yepes' oeuvre incorporates art and architecture, ethereally beautiful women, world history, religion and literature presented in powerfully charged atmospheres. Self-taught, with a refined renaissance bent; from religious iconography to erotica, George Yepes brings a confidence and knowledge of his craft that calls to mind the great Velasquez and Titian, and the great Mexican Muralists. Imbued with a contemporary street sense, his paintings and murals combine the best of both worlds where bravado meets classical standards. 
More on the artist at: http://www.georgeyepes.com/

by Kristy Ward

I lay here in my pitch-black room with my eyes open wide.
Tears dripping down my face as I wipe them aside.
The sound of my dangling bracelet as I wipe away the tears.
I've cried in silence like this for so many years.
The sound of his snores as he fell fast asleep.
No worries for him as I lay beside him and weep.
I stare into the darkness with my mind in deep, deep thought.
The demons returning, even the old ones that I fought. 
I fought those demons and won, or at least I thought I did. 
The boiling war in my brain and they removed the lid. 
That stench of darkness that never left, it was hiding deep inside. 
I tucked them away to forget, or at least I tried. 
A woman in my 40s yet I'm still that little girl, dancing in my homemade dress and gave a little twirl.
Dancing took my mind off things and writing helps release.
And just for those short moments, I brought myself some peace. 
As I lie here in this pitch-black room, I see a tiny light.
The smoke detector floating from the ceiling, and then I get that feeling.
That little light is my hope, amidst the battle in my head, the light gets a little brighter.
One day at a time she said. 

Kristy (Molina) Ward is 42, is of Mexican American descent and was born and raised in Corpus Christi, TX. She graduated from Moody High School in 1998 where she played multiple sports, but Cheerleading was her favorite. She achieved her Associates degree from San Antonio College in 2016 after being a stay-at-home mother for some years. Kristy is a licensed insurance agent that now resides in San Antonio, Texas, loves to TikTok, and represents her culture in many ways. She has two kids who are currently in college. Alyssa is studying to be a Physical Therapist Assistant and Aaron is going into Business. Kristy's husband Ricky is also a college student studying to be in Sports Management. When she is not working Kristy loves to dance, discover new restaurants, hit the trails and spend quality time with her family. Kristy has never been published and has been writing her poetry since her teen years.

Heartburn
 
Yesterday I discovered what anaemia is:
quiet snowflakes turned the sky pale,
the grass capped in frost or is it called escaracha?
I whisper the word and try to hold on to it,
the way my tongue pushes against my teeth.
The day my mother departed,
cold moved in and innocence was frozen,
along with my meaning of all those words:


mami,              madré.             hija,                 niña


tongue-tied something got lost in translation.
They’ve given me iron to strengthen me,
if only it could forge us back together.
I try to eat my way back to you, so much flesh and blood.
I try to recover every dish you made me but I’m
still hungry, surrounded by empty plates
and the aroma of what was served.
Waves of indigestion chase me out of a dream.



Foreign
 
They’ve sampled my tradition in a spoonful,
too curious to refuse.
 
I’m a buffet laid out, my language colourful,
a sea teeming with strange delights,
 
that laps at their ears
the edge of their understanding.
 
It could be smooth sailing, I’ve heard,
but I feel a storm in the air
 
caught between hot and cold, clouded
partitions create boundaries
 
between concrete and abstract
why must there be one or the other?
 
I’ve always been good at balancing
the two from my head to my heart.
 
They say they care but I can’t read
their lips. I beg at their table
 
like wasps or flies trying to snatch back

pieces they’ve appropriated, I end up starved.



Time Machine

Spying an aeroplane smooth and silver
far above land, between space and rock,
living              two                  lives:
 
above sea-level, afraid of heights
saddled by a dialect, my tongue
blooms with foreign wounds,
 
I long to return to the shallows of the sea –
floating – or taste the crust of an arepa,
salted like your skin.  Touch down
 
on a landing strip and stake claim
to abandoned places with starfruit trees
shining ripe, straining to be plucked.
 
Let’s return: we’ll tread the wide, once
teeming asphalt, still hot from the sun.
Jet-lagged, no one will notice how much
 

                   we’ve changed.

​TAK Erzinger copyright 2023 from the collection Tourist (Sea Crow Press, Massachusetts)