By YANG JIAN
He was old.
She, too, was old.
Their years, like lightning, slit the heart of the passerby.
They quickly finished eating a chicken:
He, the head, she, the legs.
From outside the window, a warm spring breeze brushed their faces.
Their hearts stirred for once,
Like the firs in the park,
Towering, nondescript.
It would matter precious little
If they were dead, rotten.
Translated by Stephen Haven and Li Yongyi
Yang Jian’s books of poetry include Dusk, Old Bridge, and Remorse.
ESTHER KARIN MNGODO
You’re surprised to see a fish that’s blue. You’ve never seen such a fish before, let alone heard of one. You say to the fishmongers, “So it’s true, travel makes you new. I can’t believe how blue it is!” You’re told it’s called a Bluu Fish. Its color resembles the jeans you’re wearing.
LEILA CHATTI
Around me, the stubborn trees. Here / I was sad and not sad, I looked up / at a caravan of clouds. Will you ever / speak to me again, beyond / my nightly resurrections? My desire / displaces, is displaced. / The sun unrolls black shadows / which halve me. I stand.
TREY MOODY
My grandmother likes to tell me dogs / understand everything you say, they just can’t / say anything back. We’re eating spaghetti / while I visit from far away. My grandmother / just turned ninety-four and tells me dogs / understand everything you say. / They just can’t say anything back.
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