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)

by Amanda Rosas
​

Hominy is Dad standing in the kitchen, 
steam beginning to brim over his glasses 
as he pours sliced calabacita into an hoya 
already simmering a pork caldo.
Hominy is white, is yellow, is eaten out of
brown Dad hands from the can as if he 
were still that young varón working
the graveyard shift at the Corpus refinery, 
the perfume of lava soap rising from the
oil left over in his palm taken up to his mouth.
Hominy is a bowl of otoño and dad sipping tuetano 
out of the soup bone’s soul, its animal flavor, 
the decadent essence of life.
Hominy is the bullet hole in the heart, 
where dad is simmering you a soup.
In the flesh, still alive.

(Scroll down to hear Amanda recite her poem) 

by David Estringel

Después de la estela
 
Yellow wallpaper
peels
behind faded pictures
in dusty frames,
falling to the floor
in ashen drifts—ephemeral--
of births and wakes,
stabbing
to the heart
like first kisses
or cold sips
of Mexican Coke
but dulled
from memory
(and time)
like giftless Christmases
and old housedresses,
drying on the line.
What ghosts roam these halls,
Haunting bowls
of waxed fruit
and glass doorknobs,
lingering ‘round saints’ alters,
dust bunnies,
and jelly jar glasses
like palls
or the bitter of burnt almonds.
As a pale pink echo
of rose
peeks through the air’s must,
a voice whispers, “Recuerdas esto, ahora,”
leaving me to chuckle and smile.
 
How silly it is to mourn life as we live it.

Caja de memoria
 
Fingers,
gingerly sifting
through ecos de lavanda,
praise spirits
of modest treasures
in silent prayer.
Ribbon-tied letters.
A lock of hair tied with blue ribbon.
Viejos dólares de plata.
Tarjetas de oración a los santos (two for St. Jude).
Pressed flowers in wax paper.
A faded scapular.
Old report cards (Never was any good at Math).
Broken reading glasses.
Una camelia encerada
and
the smell of her.
Amén.

David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, Lahar, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Rigorous, Somos En escrito, Hispanecdotes, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. David received his BA in English at the University of Texas at Brownsville and his MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Texas Rio Grande Valley. Currently, he is a working on his PhD in English (World Literature) and a Graduate Instructor of Composition at Texas A&M-Commerce. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published in April 2019, followed his second and third poetry collections Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House in 2022. David has written four poetry chapbooks, Punctures (2019), PeripherieS (2020), Eating Pears on the Rooftop (2022), and Golden Calves (coming March 2023). His new book of micro poetry little punctures, a collaboration with UK illustrator, Luca Bowles, will be released in December 2022. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com.

by Reynaldo George Hinojosa Jr.

Tejanos
 
the breadth of my blood spans the rio grande, tunneling
every root into earth laid track, veins of cartesian slanted
monasteries praying for safe keeping and return. all love’s
angles need me dry as a bridge across centuries drifting,
drifting along tributaries, my eyes lifting border weight sunk
into lines like dams. god dammed me turn and bound sand
coffin lullabies shrinking miles bordering my measured body.
i crenellate, i bridge too far, moated, i solemnly melt harbors
into ice. brandished masks, graphite flares, long-speared songs
slit cascading tracks i can no longer see. beneath coffins, i river
along drifting castles, monuments laid against footprints and
obelisks turned fountains. too many feet leave dirt to consume
my blood, longing to be a mother for every lost child stuck in
the mouth of my soiled lands, softened under moonlight perils.
                                   
                                    &
 
my silver edged swards gulp air, grip for supple bodies in side
shore flotillas, clambering shoulders for another damp-
pressed lodged throat stuck from the same people split down
centuries long edges; umbra against moonlight, shaded dark
graphite bursts of genetic lacuna. arbitrary lacunae bodies
speak silence, a generation of silence, no longer listening
to wardens warranting god damned word-spills flooding me,
my river, my heart soaked in tragedy, soaked in sores weeping
my river, my name, my sense of belonging. my body is split in
imaginary sequence, sequins of words cleared out by spectacle
harvesters and mage icons. harvest my image, my name, my soil
forgotten to cowboys, forget vaqueros, lassoed my last memory
buried in the sand, in the clay, in oil stuck in the throat of nations.
 
                                    &
 
image iconoclasts barrel for barrel, priced, stocked, laminated to
touch, touch towered drill rigs silting my soil, my violent soil sold
and sunk beneath static statues and markers covered with moss, for-
gotten and left to wonder. i was born here hundreds of years ago,
but can’t remember why. when can i reduce the root to a seed? of all
the memories i carry across my body, i recall mesquite bean pods
indifferently, discarding yellow-tanned honey as nothing more
than a forgotten name. cabeza de pozo is only a myth to my hands,
to my lungs, my hands no longer carry generations of silence, my body
is already filled. i’ve eaten my share, drank the rio grande, subsumed
what is left, whispers still fill my cup—branch from the river, branch
from my throat, branch the sky, branched in solitude separate stilled
and stolen loose soil saved for savagery. i am witness to its reflection still
standing in tides grown from my blood. my blood is a memory i sift through,
speaking its name along the camino real. upwards, norteño, ever upwards
to heaven’s song: sol, my sol, my soil, my name buried deep within the soil.

Jalapeño Smoke
 
my mother burns jalapeños on the comal
choking me with centuries long memories
 
its sharp-sticks saturate the air like a mist
body full, expanding corners in my lips and nostrils
 
the piercing plates lap up my tongue
feeding me memorials of earth
 
verde encerrado en una coma
hooked, lined like mexico
jealous of my mouth
            that still speaks
 
its blister berry song lulls fire
torched-heart and fireworked
 
i remember the dreary fumes
steeling my name
cutting through my throat
 
capturing my voice alive
carving out the well’s swollen gland
speaking, speaking the spanish name
 
el lamento, razed buds steamed in effigy
torched-bust hammer-filled balloons
 
pyrrhic tastes, burn-swelled sweat
the arch of its name sinks like a submarine
rises like a whale
splashes long rivers we call home
 
el lamento, for loose soil
it levels me in ancient serenity
fusing its long root in my veins
 
mi raza es contigo, cuaresmeño, fat with liquid blister
circular spirit in the house that never leaves me
troubadour of the flamed-tongued vineyard
 
dragging me to the root
hardened es posible con suave
 
la muerte es tu clave
to the scorched light
burn-scarred across the shipless sail
heart-driven and anchored in me
 
mirrored to the centuries long current
buried in the light of my mother’s cooking
smoke-washed dream of my north star
 
searing every word for home
the earth still recognizes me
 
its fruits still hold my name

Reynaldo George Hinojosa Jr. is a Tejano-born writer and musician. He acquired his MFA in Creative Writing and Bachelor’s in Liberal Arts from the University of Texas at El Paso, and an Associate’s in Music from San Antonio College. Since arriving in Michigan, Reynaldo helped build, and currently helps run, the bookstore cooperative Book Suey. He is a 2022-2024 Lead Teaching Artist Fellow with Inside Out Literary Arts. He lives with his son, partner, and two cats in Hamtramck.