Ossuarius by Eva Bujalka

Strange that the air down here should have more the texture of something living it, breathing it. Strange that the air itself should impress upon the living the sensation of breathing in the grave soil, the soil that is so afflicted with several lifetimes’ humors: black bile and phlegm, the cold... Read More

Three Poems by Ivonne Gordon, translated from Spanish by Cindy Rinne

A secret lodges itself in the ellipsis. / The dream eclipses my body into yours. / The suns multiply themselves in thousands of eyelids. / Green disguises us as fluid dreams. / We suspend from the lung of the wind. / The burnt stone, our witness, blesses the sacredness / of our name... Read More