Carolyn Forche

We have come far south. Beyond this, the oldest women shelling limas into black shawls, Portillo scratching his name on the walls, the slender ribbons of piss, children patting the mud. If we go on, we might stop in the street in the very place where [...]

para Maya In Spanish you whisper there is no time left. In a few hours a staircase will touch the door of a plane, you will empty your bag at the gate to show them you have no gun, we will hold each other. During the night your friends come to help [...]

para Claribel Alegria In Deya, she tells me, when the mist rises out of the rocks it comes so close to her hands she could tear it to pieces like bread. She holds her drink and motions with one hand to describe it. What she would do with so many bask [...]