logo image a digital codex of contemporary pan-american writing

Issue 16, Poesía | August 2015




I stare through this green block of ice
at the high fold between her shoulders
and conclude the ass 
is even more a pear
than it was in the morning
when I woke to the song of the dead tanager.
That’s right, another beheading yesterday.
Worms in the wheat. Diamonds
in barley.


My father’s friend from across the pond
died all of a sudden
this early winter.

I saw the sternum
yellow and sunken?

Why are details 
such a consolation.
The enumeration
even of the deaths