The Door
 
I cannot see through glass
frosted with shadows. Greener
grass edges the pane, beckons.
 
Mosaic of rainbow colors, collaged
on this side of the door, intones
the music of promises
 
bound with hope, the strength
of iron, to buttress my own frailty
I pray will not easily fracture.
 
A dove perching next to me
once whispered in the ears
of my heart in a dream.
 
Though bedside promises blur
with uncertainties, I hear your
voice. I’m opening the door.
            I’m coming home.

The Visit
 
My long-lost sister Lidia
came from Argentina
I rushed to be with her
 
            but waited in the car
            that I left running, prayed
            for courage to climb the steps
 
                        and pass through the door
                        so I’d see her once again
                        even though she was gone
                                                Her body left in a casket

John C. Mannone, an Uruguayan-born Sicilian, has published poems (some bilingual, some in Spanish) in various magazines. In 2017, he was awarded a Jean Ritchie Fellowship in Appalachian literature and served as the celebrity judge for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies in 2018. Two forthcoming collections are Flux Lines: The Intersection of Science, Love, and Poetry (Linnet’s Wings Press, 2021) and Sacred Flute (Iris Press, 2022). He edits poetry for Abyss & Apex and other journals. His parents migrated to the U.S. when he was 4-1/2 years old and he grew up in Baltimore, Maryland. A retired physics professor, John lives in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Long has it been since I’ve heard the shuffle of old slippers on the linoleum floor. The clanging of pans. Squeaks from the rolling pin. The thump…thump…thump of black stone on black stone—the molcajete—mashing cumino seeds and cloves of garlic—with snaps and pops—into glorious salves that staved off hungers, deep and brash. I bless that heavenly transmutation—the thump…thump…thump that spun vulgar sundries into liquid gold. That elixir of lives, swirled with warm love and splashes of water from the tap, poured into pots—cauldrons of arroz con pollo, picadillo, carne guisada, and that pollo con calabaza I could never bring myself to eat—that set eyes and tongues aflame. But, the kitchen is quiet, now, with only the smell of black bananas in the fruit bowl, abandoned dishes on countertops, and—maybe—a sweaty piece of cheese that fell behind the stove. The molcajete is dry as a bone, grieving, quietly, in a corner next to the sink—no tears left to shed (slipped away like fistfuls of quicksilver)—with no philosopher’s stone to bring back the thump…thump…thump of this heart or home nor the alchemy of her fingertips. 

David Estringel is a Mexican-American writer/poet who was born in Alice, TX and grew up in Brownsville, TX for half of his life. He currently lives in Temple, TX with his five dogs and is finishing his MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Texas - Rio Grande Valley. David started writing three years ago at age 49 and has had his work appear in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalopress, North Meridian Review, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Horror Sleaze Trash, and The Blue Nib. His short story, "When Blood Wants Blood," recently appeared in Puro ChicanX Writers of the 21st Century (published by Cutthroat: A Journal of the Arts and The Black Earth Institute). His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints (Alien Buddha Press) was published April 2019, followed by three poetry chapbooks, Punctures (Really Serious Literature - 2019), PeripherieS (The Bitchin’ Kitsch - 2020), and Eating Pears on the Rooftop (Finishing Line Press - July 2022). His new book of micro poetry little punctures, a collaboration with UK illustrator and artist, Luca Bowles, will be released in 2022 by Really Serious Literature.

LA VOZ EN EL ESPEJO
​
Los bordes no tienen cielo, 
se extienden, 
vibran como sogas de sol a mediodía, 
viven entre los muertos.
He nacido con causa. 
Entrar es emerger, 
y salir es moverse dentro.  
Cuatro cruces existen sobre nosotros,
volar hacia abajo es subir.  
Un segundo nos retorna a los huesos,  
cielos de luna.  
Los ojos debajo son noches rojas, 
crujen en el viento.  
Las ancianas nobles, 
encienden el fuego. 
La culebra,
hunde sus fauces sobre el agua, 
la palabra llueve sobre la tierra.  

THE VOICE IN THE MIRROR

The edges have no sky,
they extend,
vibrate like ropes of sun at noon,
live among the dead.
I was born with a cause.
To enter is to emerge,
and to go out is to move inside.
Four crosses exist above us,
to fly down is to go up.
One second returns us to our bones,
moon skies.
The eyes below are red nights,
they creak in the wind.
The noble old women,
light the fire.
The snake,
sinks its jaws over the water,
the word rains on earth

REFUGIO DE HIERBA
 
La palabra se bebe,  
aconseja a la madrugada, tuerce hilos. 
El oído, al otro lado, es la corriente del sueño,
camino de sol donde la tierra se separa.
Una luz blanca es un collar de semillas.
Los sentidos de las palabras son frutos,
puntos de canto. 
Retomar el aliento al barrer la hierba,
es pronunciar el mundo en suelos negros,
es ascenso vertical, es la regeneración del llanto.
Es tumbar, quemar los huecos poco profundos,
es sembrar el cielo, la luna, el trueno,
es derramar la sangre en nudos y en hojas. 
  
GRASS SHELTER
 
The word is taken in,
it advises dawn, it twists strings.
The ear, on the other side, is the stream of sleep,
a sunny road where earth is separated.
A white light is a necklace of seeds.
The meanings of words are fruits,
singing points.
To catch our breath when sweeping the green grass,
is to pronounce the world on black soils,
it is to ascent vertically,
it is to regenerate a cry,
to knock down, and burn the shallow holes
to sow the sky, the moon, thunder,
and to spill the blood in knots and leaves.

Masiel M. Corona Santos es poeta bilingüe y líder comunitaria. M.A. Letras Hispánicas y Lingüística (CSUSB). B.A. Literatura Hispánica y cultura, Especialidad en Estudios Chicanos/Latinos (UCI). Recientemente publicó Cantos Revolucionarios (Letras Huastecas, N. L. México). Ella es fundadora de Revista Raíces. Su trabajo aparece en revistas digitales e impresas, al igual que en antologías. Ella colabora con Los Angeles Poet Society y Centro Cultural de México donde promueve las literatura. Ella ha coordinado talleres de poesía para la comunidad de Santa Ana, Ca. y en Comachuén, Michoacán, México y también codirigió un taller de poesía mediante Círculo de Poetas and Writers.  

Masiel M. Corona Santos is a bilingual poet and community leader. M.A. in Hispanic Literature, and Linguistics (CSUSB) B.A. Spanish Literature and Culture, minor in Chicano/Latino Studies (UCI). She recently published Cantos Revolucionarios, (Letras Huastecas, N.L. México). She is the founder of Revista Raíces. Her work appears in digital, print journals, as well as in various anthologies. She collaborates in Los Angeles Poet Society and Centro Cultural de México where she promotes literature. She has led poetry workshops for the Santa Ana Ca. Community, and Comachuén, Michoacán México. She also co-led a poetry workshop through Círculo de Poetas and Writers. ​

Breve historia de un grito
 
Trescientos años después 
de la conquista se alzó el grito 
de dolores, grito de un pueblo
adolorido por independencia
del imperio. Veinte y unos años
después de ser independiente 
México perdió mas de la mitad 
de sus tierras al más joven 
impero del norte.
Y expulsando otra invasión
y sufridas otras tiranías
se hizo por revolución el grito
dolorido. De eso hace cien
y más años. ¿Qué puede decir 
una historia del hambre, la sed,
el dolor, la pena, el sufrir 
de la que se hace?
La injusticia echa raíces muy largas. 
Deshacerse de un yugo no es ser
libre, deshacerse de un yugo no es
lo mismo que lograr la justicia.
La lucha sigue. Pues ¡adelante!
mexican@s, chican@s, adelante mundo. 
La lucha sigue hasta la justicia.
¡Hasta la justicia sigue la lucha!

© Rafael Jesús González 2021
(Somos en escrito, septiembre 2021; derechos reservados del autor)

Rafael Jesús González, Prof. Emeritus of literature and creative writing, was born and raised biculturally/bilingually in El Paso, Texas/Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, and taught at University of Oregon, Western State College of Colorado, Central Washington State University, University of Texas El Paso (Visiting Professor of Philosophy), and Laney College, Oakland, California where he founded the Dept. of Mexican & Latin-American Studies. Also visual artist, he has exhibited in the Oakland Museum of California, the Mexican Museum of San Francisco, and others in the U.S. and Mexico. Nominated thrice for a Pushcart prize, he was honored by the National Council of Teachers of English and Annenberg CPB for his writing in 2003. In 2013 he received a César E. Chávez Lifetime Award and was honored by the City of Berkeley with a Lifetime Achievement Award at the 13th Annual Berkeley Poetry Festival 2015. He was named the first Poet Laureate of Berkeley in 2017. Visit http://rjgonzalez.blogspot.com/. 

La Abeja
 
We know the buzz of her flying
but once she lands and stills her wings
she makes other sounds
the sounds of her unpacking
 
The pants of La Abeja have several pockets
She unpacks her pockets
at pachangas, parades
birthdays, weddings, cabalgatas
 
La Abeja makes her delivery
Her delivery of cultura:
New dances, first recipes, original games
Fresh jokes, bold accents, cool spellings
 
La Abeja arrives early and leaves late
She tastes every dish, she dances every song
 
Before she leaves the party
La Abeja refills her pockets
She stuffs them with cultura, poesía, canción
 
La Abeja flies south to the zocalos
North to the gazebos
East to the pagodas
West to the rodeos
 
To attract her, water your flowers
Water you poesía, water your canción.

La Cena
 
With every mouthful of your cod
My arms become fins
I am a fish cruising through oceans
Oceans so open
I swim as far as the moon
 
With every spoonful of your mango salsa
I grow body hair
I am a chango swinging across treetops`
Trees so high in the dusk
I dribble the setting sun
 
No dessert please
I too am cooked
I am a thin stalk of asparagus
Sizzling in a pan
Ecstatic in your oil

Vowels
 
I sing a vowel to the sky
A vowel of the land
My bare feet touch the earth
This jewel that holds me
That lets me stand
That lets me walk
I sing this vowel to the sky
 
I sing a vowel to mi gente
The vowel of mi familia
I learn this vowel from my bloodline
The comida shared
The luchas won
I sing this vowel to mi gente
 
I sing a vowel to my love
The vowel of ancient forests
A vowel as old as redwoods
As young as blossoms
This vowel bloomed when I met you
I sing this vowel to my love

​César Love is a Latinx poet living in San Francisco, California. He is the author of two books of poetry, While Bees Sleep and Birthright, and he is a co-editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. He recently published Baseball: An Astrological Sightline, an examination of astrology and baseball. His website is www.baseballastrology.com.

"Orphan," "The Landing," "The Food's Delicious, You're Not Welcome," "The Contrition Between US" excerpted from at the foot of the mountain by Tak Erzinger.

Orphan

When your mother decides to leave,
do you tell the world?

What if everyone thinks it’s your fault?

You could pretend it didn’t happen,
never talk about it and over-compensate with many things, become an awesome painter
share your artwork full of hidden meaning.

Maybe people will forget to ask.

It will push you to develop in ways you never imagined, maybe ways she would’ve been proud of, if she’d been around.

Like how you can really dance, the way she could always dance, the way you followed her steps to the beats of all the albums she bought you,
holding hands, she’d swing you around and around, pulling you close and pushing you back,
keeping you spinning,
you’d hear, I’ll always be there for you.

It’s not what she said though.

​She was only singing.




The Landing

When they tell you, you’ve
had a nervous breakdown
you become like an astronaut

you find yourself drifting,
pleading for someone to provide you
with the right equipment.

In the right space
you can deploy like the Eagle
confronting the “magnificent desolation” resolutely.

To be able to sink your feet into the
lunatic surface will be a revelation
tip-toeing through craters formed

long before you were born.
If you run low on fuel
at least you will have finally seen

what those wounds look like
up close and personal and like
the dark side of the moon

allow the parts unseen to be
tucked back into the envelope
of your universe.

The discovery-
every exploration takes time
and patience.



​The Food’s Delicious, You’re Not Welcome

Once adults become a certain age
it’s a matter of time before they reminisce
to talk of the past
and say it was better

Ethnic food piled high
they’ll question Why, dear friend,
aren’t you afraid?
and lick their lips in satisfaction

It requires a stranger, light-skinned
without a funny surname
to offer up dishes, exotic recipes
on familiar ground

This individual, welcomed like a pet
loves the taste of cheeseburgers
heats up the grill
to fire up their lies

The irony of being accepted
the memory of a childhood
chewing her up and spitting her out
just a little taste

garlic sautéed softens
too much spice can ruin the meal
adulting in measured cups
does not guarantee the right flavour

The common denominator loves the food
but does that mean its balanced?
I’ve learnt to share those dishes while I continue
to get burned in places unseen and am
left with scorched pans, unable to replace them.



The Contrition Between Us

We are like two cats circling,
insecure, heated, fearful.

Each one vying for his place,
seeds that have scattered haphazardly

breaking cracks in the cement,
vulnerable and strong at the same time.

It’s like we’ve forgotten what brought
us to this place: the promises,

like a wide and clear spring sky, its
passing clouds, whispers tucked under

our pillows. The scent of love lingers,
over empty plates and glasses, still warm

from the summer’s evening sun
easing the tension, making us forget

​a moment about the family we will never
have.

TAK Erzinger is an American/Swiss poet and artist with a Colombian background. Her poetry has been featured in Bien Acompañada from Cornell University, The Muse from McMaster University, River and South Review, Wilkes University and more.  Her debut chapbook entitled, “Found: Between the Trees” was published by Grey Border Books, Canada 2019. Her then, unpublished poetry manuscript “At the Foot of the Mountain” was short-listed by the Eyelands Book Awards 2019 and Willow Run Book Awards 2020. It has now been published by Floricanto Press out of California, 2021.  Her first audio drama Stella’s Constellation has been produced by Alt.Stories and Fake Realities Podcasts, out of the UK.
​She lives in a Swiss valley with her husband and cats.

No Me Quieren Escuchar
​
I run around with my insides in my hands 
taking them to you, to him, to them.
No one knows what to do,
so you all watch
as I stuff them back in
and conceal them with a cloth.
All is well
even though the blood drips out.
You can ignore it,
just mop it up y ya se esconde.
Todo está bien,
no mal,
just bien.
Hay que seguir aguantando
the pain.
Porque él se fue
sin tí, sin mí
corriendo del dolor de aquí.

​They Move On

I want him remembered,
not forgotten.
But, I’m not allowed to grieve.
Obscurity, sadness, pain
is what everyone sees.
Uncomfortable, intolerable,
 so they don’t speak.
As if erasing him erases the pain.
Now that he is gone the pain is gone.
Life goes on.
All is well.
Package it up with a neat little bow,
and away it goes.
Away from you.
He lives in me.
It’s hard for you to understand.
So, we pretend that you don’t see,
the sadness living in me.
See, you walked away from him
long before he walked away from me. 

Lo Que Dejo

Will I ever feel safe again?
Did I ever feel safe before?
No yo creo que no,
el alcohol siempre tuvo el control.
Querían descansar
de él, y no saber más.
 
Pero ya se fue, ya no está,
y en el vacío no podrán descansar.
O alomejor sí, pero yo no.
Yo siempre lo espere ver mejor.
Que algún día ya no iba tomar
y ya nomás sería buen papá.   
 
El, todos, yo, nomás ocupábamos amor,
pero nos dejamos llevar por el dolor.
Se nos olvidó, que para sanar el dolor
nomás ocupamos demostrar más amor.
Es fácil tenerles compasión a las personas buenas,
pero la compasión también es para las personas enfermas. 

Never Coming Back

A little girl looks to her dad for strength,
the rock that keeps things in their place.
I never knew how safe I felt
until I went one day without
the strongest man I ever knew
the funniest one too.
But he is gone, and this I know:
I have never felt this much alone.

Lupita Velasco was born in Calvillo, Aguascalientes, Mexico; but grew up as an undocumented immigrant in Oklahoma. As a sheltered immigrant, Lupita found comfort, adventure, and refuge in literature from a very young age. Reading is Lupita’s favorite escape and writing her favorite form of expression. Lupita graduated from the University of Oklahoma in 2011 with a bachelor’s in International Studies and a minor in Criminology. Lupita currently lives in Bethany, Oklahoma with her neurodivergent husband, two daughters, and four chickens.

José E. Valdivia Heredia is an undergraduate student of Religion and Latin American studies at Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania. They are a Chicanx writer from Northern California born to two parents from Michoacán, México. José has published a short poem in the Harvard Latinx literary publication Palabritas. 

Luna para poetas asesinados
​​
                    Creyeron que te enterraban
                    ​y lo que hacían era enterrar una semilla.
                         Ernesto Cardenal, epitafio para la tumba
                         de Adolfo Báez Bone revolucionario nicaragüense
 
          para los poetas de Myanmar,
          y todos los poetas muertos
          ​resistiendo tiranía.

Inmensa, cerca a la Tierra, la luna,
jala a las mareas de los mares
y de la sangre.
En la sombra de la Tierra,
se tiñe escarlata
como laca birmana
por los atardeceres de la Tierra.
¿O será que se ruboriza de furia,
partera, madrina de la vida?
La sangre de sus sumos sacerdotes,
los poetas, corre roja en las calles
 
Pero mátenos
y otros se levantarán.
Palabras cargadas
de verdad, belleza, amor
no mueren; encienden el pensar
y hacen revolución en el corazón.

Moon for Murdered Poets

                    They thought that they buried you
                    & what they did was bury a seed.
                         Ernesto Cardenal, epitaph for the tomb
                               of Adolfo Báez Bone, Nicaraguan revolutionary

          for the poets of Myanmar,
          & all poets killed
          ​resisting tyranny.
 
Huge, near Earth, the moon
pulls at the tides of the sea
and of the blood.
In the Earth’s shadow,
she is tinged scarlet,
like Burmese lacquer,
by the sunsets of the Earth.
Or is it that she flushes in fury,
midwife, godmother of life?
The blood of her high-priests,
the poets, runs red in the streets.
 
But kill us
and others will rise.
Words freighted
with truth, beauty, love
do not die; they ignite thought
and make revolution in the heart.
 
© Rafael Jesús González 2021

​Rafael Jesús González, Prof. Emeritus of literature and creative writing, was born and raised biculturally/bilingually in El Paso, Texas/Cd. Juárez, Chihuahua, and taught at University of Oregon, Western State College of Colorado, Central Washington State University, University of Texas El Paso (Visiting Professor of Philosophy), and Laney College, Oakland, California where he founded the Dept. of Mexican & Latin-American Studies. Also visual artist, he has exhibited in the Oakland Museum of California, the Mexican Museum of San Francisco, and others in the U.S. and Mexico. Nominated thrice for a Pushcart prize, he was honored by the National Council of Teachers of English and Annenberg CPB for his writing in 2003. In 2013 he received a César E. Chávez Lifetime Award and was honored by the City of Berkeley with a Lifetime Achievement Award at the 13th Annual Berkeley Poetry Festival 2015. He was named the first Poet Laureate of Berkeley in 2017. Visit http://rjgonzalez.blogspot.com/. 

Today I take back my birth right
 
without fear or hesitation.
 
You, who believe you have as much right to deny me my heritage like conquistadores in foreign ships.
 
Yo soy Boricua! Aunque no lo sepas!
 
Yo soy Boricua! Aunque tu me niegas!
 
I know how it drives you insane, that my Spanish sounds like heresy.
 
Do you not recognize your own brother?
 
I am the product of our mother’s violation, the bastard son of history, the crumbs that the mainland left behind! I am the echo of our past!
 
And I see you. I see through you. You foam at the mouth, ready to spit rejection into my face.
 
As I speak, I see your lips curling like bows taking aim at my chest. Your tongues are pitchforks starving for blood. Your words are salt encrusted and stink of vinegar left to dry.
 
Your fingers slowly creep, crawl, and wrap themselves around stones. Accusing me of adultery, pharisees of my flag.
 
Me acusan de traición!
 
Me han dicho que abandone mi patria!
 
Por no estar sufriendo con ella! Luchando por ella!
 
Accuse me of poverty instead!
 
Accuse me of loving a family I could not provide for! As if being Puerto Rican eight thousand miles away from home was not suffering enough.
 
As if representing our pride and defending our honor to those who believe we have none left isn’t enough of a fight!
 
But I see that your eyes still speak silence and rejection.
 
Sin embargo, I know who I am and where I am from.
 
Yo soy el jíbaro triste, migrando a la cuidad de Nueva York.
 
I am the sleepless nights in the heartless jungles of concrete and traffic.
 
I am the desperation of the immigrant.
 
I am the weeping eyes of mothers praying for their sons.
 
I am all of their “Hail Mary’s” and “Padre Nuestro”.
 
I am the uncertainty of choice. To leave or to stay?
 
To leave.
 
And pack your whole life inside a bag of luggage…
 
 
I am the isolation of our single star.
 
Quiet seed of the Caribbean.
 
It wants to scream out from beneath the earth, to be acknowledged by the world.
 
We are taught that injustice is our daily bread. To be thankful that we are not like other Latin countries, “republicas hambrientas”
 
Justice is too much to thirst for, because “no estamos listos para la soberanía.”
 
As if freedom is something we must learn, as if it wasn’t already seared into the very skin of our souls when we are born! As if it wasn’t already carved into our bones and written in verse within our hearts!
 
Tell me, do you think we felt loved when the President threw paper towels at us when there was more blood running in the island than water?
 
Neither did I.
 
I am Judas, who betrayed himself and sold his flesh for thirty pieces of silver and a loaf of bread to give to his mother. 
 
You would have me crucified for being born into the same skin as you.
 
The sound of my rolling r’s is flat and deformed, my skin is a shade of American to you, but I will never be what you want me to be.
 
I will not confess to crimes I did not commit.
 
Because you cannot abandon a home,
 
 
that has never left your heart…
 
 
Y confieso con mi cantico triste,
 
Yo soy Boricua, aunque no lo sepas.
 
Yo soy Boricua, aunque tu me niegas.