A witch gave you a pair of legs
(and other things I won’t mention).
Satisfied with your new body, you set off
for dry land. It was August and nobody
was surprised to see you on the beach,
naked and smiling
Poetry
Two Poems by Luis Alberto de Cuenca
I Hope Your Birthday Is So Beautiful, It Hurts to Look at It
by Josette Akresh-Gonzales
barbeque and a good dog and beer and acres of thigh-high grass
touched by the first draft of evening. A sunlit breeze lunges
across the hay field. We stand around, breathing.
Verge
by William Cordeiro
You walk beside the crick as light is rushing
off. Afterglow molts lavender and saffron.
Each house you pass is built of falling dust.
The Poem Under Gag by Abdellatif Laâbi
translated from the French by Allan and Guillemette Johnston
Hello sunshine of my country
how good it is to be alive today
so much light
so much light around me
It Just Goes to Show
by Sylee Gore
Now I know what you’re thinking. In this one you’re the princess; the dragon is faceless. Everywhere, the edges of the waves are blown into froth. I worry so much about making it interesting. Off the ferry, the first thing we buy is a cone of sugared almonds. Crests of waves begin to topple.
Of Bad Borders by Mohammad-Ali Sepanlou
translated from the Persian by Siavash Saadlou
I am writing of the morning of fair dreams,
of the dancing of your hands; those beautiful
lithe hands that hoist before the new morning…
Evelyn Nesbit Poses as Bluebeard’s Wives
by Rose DeMaris
My abundant hair, my only wealth, fits so easily
in his fist. I pull the soft stem of his handrolled cigarette
from my lips, which he told me are a pair of petals
Threeple, Tripple
by Kelly R. Samuels
Cumbria: gentle sound made by a quick-flowing stream
The traffic always was just outside the bank of windows
and down and could be heard
more than seen for the trees that spring and early summer.
Absent
by Susanna Lang
I have been missing from this year’s spring.
Witness to the winter aconite and snowdrops, the first daffodils,
but not the tulips or hyacinths.
Two poems from Mes forêts (My Forests) by Hélène Dorion
translated from the French by Susanna Lang
we hear the song
of fracture and desire
body like the tide going out
pale boat
lost in its night
