I lift a dark curtain to the crown of the windowpane,
twist until the spring rod is taut across the jambs.
A hum pinches from my throat. The drape a current
my hands trace, the ribbed foam I pressed in panels
on my father’s wall. …
—keep reading: Saxophone by Will Russo
Living in Exile
To live in exile.
A bitter juxtaposition,
practically an oxymoron.
speak different languages,
and even I,
between sleep and wakefulness,
hear separate languages
inside my head.
—keep reading: In Translation: Two Poems by Julio Monteiro Martins
Found in the Dictator’s Desk // Calculations
trans. Donald Stang & Helen Wickes