Luis Alberto de Cuenca
Translated from the Spanish by Gustavo Pérez Firmat
Give me your hand. We have to cross
the river and my strength fails me.
Hold me as if I were an abandoned package
in a wicker basket, a lump that moves
and cries in the twilight. Cross the river
with me. Even if this time the waters
don't part before us. Even if this time God
doesn't come to our aid and a flurry of arrows
riddles our backs. Even if there is no river.
 


Moisés

Dame la mano. Hay que cruzar el río
para llegar al otro lado, y siento
que las fuerzas me faltan. Cógeme
como si fuera un bulto abandonado
en un cesto de mimbre que se mueve
y que llora a las luces del crepúsculo.
Cruza el río conmigo. Aunque sus aguas
no replieguen su cauce ante nosotros
esta vez. Aunque Dios no nos asista
y una nube de flechas acribille
nuestras espaldas. Aunque no haya río.
from the journal THE SOUTHERN REVIEW
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"Adrian Matejka, the First Black Editor to Lead Poetry Magazine"

"The good thing about a democracy is that if you have a lot of voters of color, they can vote for candidates of color, but that's not how arts organizations work. It's not how literary journals work. It's not how magazines work; but now they do. Michelle is here; our staff is incredibly diverse and we're all holding hands in common cause to make (the magazine) look more like what our community looks like."

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What Sparks Poetry:
Leah Nieboer on Hillary Gravendyk's Harm


"I keep reading it because it makes me desire its inevitable cyborgs and monsters, its palpitated time-signatures, its 'pink dreaming riot.' I, too, want to get weaved in. Or—I am already weaved in, and desire a present, and future, that is livable with, and inclusive of, a chronic error-measure. Give me less of that narrative 'cure' imposed 'across an abrupt jumble of absences' and more of this speculative wildness."
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