Hannah Kent translates Alexandra K*

The Offering

We got our report cards back last night. Apparently, the teacher had called you in for a talk. You stepped into the schoolyard dressed in the general’s uniform – the tall papakha hat made of astrakhan fur, the stiff navy overcoat, and the epaulets with tassels hanging off your shoulders. The sixth-grade girls were swooning onto the cement while I watched you with vile indifference, clenching my teeth on a koulouri bagel, the sesame kind that disgusts you. Show no respect, I promised myself, Absolutely no nostalgia, I will not run to him, I’ve held my breath for six months, will not cave in the finale, I swore, where I pinky-promised my own heart. I took a bite of the koulouri as big as your throat and stuffed my mouth with sesame so you’d be repulsed but also think, Fuck Volga and all of Lake Baikal, I want her, even with all that sesame. You marched closer and closer but wouldn’t arrive, with every stride you grew by a head and I shrunk by two. Finally, you loomed over me, your golden Brandenburg buttons shining so bright I was blinded, but I played it cool, turned my back to you and started up the stairs, swaying my ass in your face because I could sense you were hell-bent, a brewing storm.

The poor teacher bowed to you like a slave and you blessed him with a pat on the back like a horse you had broken and brutalized. He offered you a piece of paper with trembling hands and retreated slightly so the crossfire wouldn’t catch him. You looked at it, looked at it, looked at it, looked at me, I looked at you, you looked at it again, I gave you a smile (whoops), you swelled, cleared your throat, concentrated, I pretended to concentrate, you looked at me and told him:


The poor teacher exhaled.

“As you can perceive,” he said, wiping his sweaty forehead, “we didn’t accomplish very much this semester. To apply even more precision in my meaning, Mr. General, we hit rock bottom. All the progressions and developments we had gained in previous years have gone straight to hell. Compare and contrast, if you please. Behold last semester’s perfect 10s. Now observe how the forlorn 10s have been orphaned from their 1s. We’re talking about a mass uno-cide here. All that remains are these utterly round 0s, particularly in the fundamental prowesses required of a modern lady: Independence, Ambition, Etiquette and Charm! Six months ago, who could have foreseen this occurrence occurring for our young lady? The epitome of moxie at this institution, our champion in the crusade against the patriarchy, the undisputable frontrunner in the National Competition of Competitiveness. We’re talking about a colossal calamity here. The young lady has not successfully generated a thing for months now. She states she doesn’t trust words anymore. She states that words are – forgive me, Mr. General, this is her phrasing – Giant whores. She says, What have words ever done for me? Her productive output has been eviscerated, her professionalism irrevocably impaired. She disregards one deadline after the other, blaming the full moon or the ‘southerly wind’ blowing in. She infuriates whoever she encounters, insists on the futility of everything, flaunts her exhaustion. She compulsively employs the phrase Fuck it, not to mention the phrase – verbatim, Mr. General, verbatim – Suck my balls, which she supplements at times with a graphic gesture. What is more, she requested an exemption from the course on Self-Actualization, presenting a stack of freelancing invoices as her entire argument. So I inquire to you, good Mr. General, to what do you attribute these sudden changes in our young mademoiselle?”

You didn’t look at me – instead, you bowed your head, heavy with guilt. As if you were addressing me, you parted your lips and murmured:

“I’m sorry. I’ve been away.”

A true gentleman. You didn’t rat me out. You didn’t say the self-possessed cunt exiled me. You didn’t say Miss Sataness rebelled all over the weight of my back. You didn’t tell him the rebellion had failed and ruined her, the moron. You took full responsibility. Apologized. You were away at the frontier, you explained. In Manchuria. After that, imprisoned by the Reds in Ekaterinograd. You would’ve loved to have supervised me but couldn’t. You went through a lot, dot dot dot… Unbuttoning your shirt, you revealed the wound on your chest I inflicted at that musty bar in Mani last year. The poor teacher gasped in the face of your manly courage. When you closed your shirt, I could breathe again… You promised him this wouldn’t happen again, promised improvement. Once again, sorry. The poor teacher attempted to kiss your hand, but you swatted him off with your famous noblesse and exited the classroom, harrowed but ever tall. I slipped the poor teacher the 10 euros he deserved (it would’ve been 50, like we agreed, if he had said, “Please, take care of her, your hands are the hands that need to nurture her,” but he didn’t).

You grabbed my arm and yanked me, furious, down the stairs. We crossed the schoolyard, hand-in-arm, stepping over the corpses of girls charmed to death, until we reached the sidewalk by the street and you dropped my hand, as if it wasn’t yours anymore. As soon as we turned the corner, you stopped, looked to me, and quietly said:

“What am I going to do with you? That’s all I have.”

Behind you, an SUV raced by at full speed, and as it veered the corner I wished it would flip over and crush us. No luck. You’ve got a battalion of men to keep alive, you said, you can’t send them all to hell for me. You have responsibilities, obligations, horses, ideologies, behests from the Tzar, a sick sister. You didn’t expect this from me. Where were my perfect 10s? That’s why you tripped and fell in love with me—because I didn’t need anyone. That’s what you said, and I saw the shame sinking in as you let it slip out.

I looked at you, looked at you, looked at you. You were ashamed. I took out a pair of small scissors and started tearing off your distinctions and medals, the insignia, the epaulets with the tassels hanging off your shoulders. You didn’t react, only looked left and right to confirm nobody was watching, that we weren’t becoming a spectacle. You performed your famous patience, the act of the great martyr, finally left with a jacket full of holes and a few bleeding cuts, but still, you neither flinched nor complained. I slapped you hard and you didn’t blink an eye, kneed you hard but you didn’t give me the satisfaction of folding in two. You just stood there, motionless, waiting for the storm to pass. Then, I began digging a hole like a rabid dog around your feet to bury you alive, falling inside as I dug deeper. Once the hole was up to your throat, I stopped, now eye-level with the ground, the hole eating me whole. You then hooked me under my armpits, lifted me from this upright grave, like a premature kitten from the litter, and set me on the ground in front of your face. “Feel better?” you said.

Unflinching I looked right at you and saw the blade of your sword casting a spear of light onto my throat, an offering to the gods of this world to save your battalion. I bowed my head, so that the metal could slice the meat of my flesh without effort. You love me, you said, but this must be done, I’m sorry. I nodded, bowing my head even lower because the blade had only hit my bone and it needed more strength than the strength you had. “I believe in you, you are strong. Next semester, you will have 10s again,” I heard you murmur while my head was falling – thud – on the ground.

I picked up my 0s, my books, the trophies from your uniform, and turned to leave. Then came the girls – the wives, the daughters, the secretaries, the dociles — they wrapped you in their coats, took your temperature, kissed you on the forehead, wiped the sweat from your brow, and chanted: “Shhhh, Mr. General, calm down, it’s over, don’t fatigue yourself any longer, unwind in our hands, rest here.” They bandaged your wounds with their hair, sneered at me as I walked away. For a long time as I drifted, I could smell the burning carcasses slaughtered in your honor – man, honorable father, courageous, above and beyond the call of duty, savior of the battalion, the saint who slayed the dragon. I was going and going, dragging myself with my hands, my knees, my teeth, crying bile and spitting ashes. Kids on the street giggled with glee, the order of the world had been restored, charred flesh having relieved the stomachs of your concerned congregation. Mr. General, I didn’t know what to do with myself either, nor did I have any choice but to keep walking and—though slaughtered by your hands, or rather exactly because of it—to excel once again.


Translator’s Note:

Inside is a short story called το σφάγιο (2019), translated as “The Offering.” The Greek title, meaning “the sacrifice,” is a neuter noun in Greek, evoking an objectification or animal-ification of the subject. The author, Alexandra K*, invents neologisms, plays with temporality, and creates a complex and confusing central relationship between the narrator and Mr. General.

Alexandra K*’s impact in Greek culture ignites from the biting intellectual and erotic maneuvers her writing takes through the nature of heterosexual relationships within the patriarchal order. In part, her work explores the dichotomies assigned to limit women’s behavior in patriarchy and the way complex womanhood causes tension between women and men, women and society, women and themselves.

In translating this piece, I considered how to preserve the surrealist world-building created by Alexandra in the Greek, which is essential to how the axis between women and men operates. The irreverent tone of the work, composed through moments of confusion and humor, provides a dreamscape where the logical and illogical meet and mesh, exposing the play between gender and power as the farce that it can be.

Moments where new words or novel images are invented in the Greek decidedly required the most tender attention from this translator. Such instances include when the narrator “pinky-promised [her] own heart;” when she digs a hole with her hands that swallows Mr. General and her whole; when the poor teacher discusses the “uno-cide” which has caused the narrator’s grades to go from 10s to 0s in classes like “Independence, Ambition, Etiquette and Charm.” These parts bring the reader as close to the narrator as possible. They indoctrinate without apology the audience into her way of perceiving reality, in all that makes it ridiculous. I chose to embrace invention. Leaning into the tension between dreaming and reality, I allowed the space between the two states to exist on a razor’s edge, instead of trying to tease them apart. This tension demonstrates what is at stake for the narrator, who is teetering on the edge of two paths.

 “The Offering” describes the journey from teetering to severing, literally, when she bows her head for decapitation, cutting ties with Mr. General, and thus, this version of the world, which was constructed according to her relationship with him. Though it is painful, though she does not know where she is going, she now has no “choice but to keep walking and—though slaughtered by [his] hands, or rather exactly because of it—to excel once again.” By resisting clarity and honoring what is surprising, a relationship between reader and text blooms wherein reader is trusted to unravel the details and discern the dynamics at play. “The Offering” offers new language to consider what is already ridiculous by daring to reconstruct what is already constructed: gendered roles and the power they yield.


Alexandra K* (Corfu, 1985) is an author, playwright, and screenwriter based in Athens. Focusing on issues of gender and class, and experimenting heavily with language and form, her work has been described as irreverent, uncanny, and “disturbingly honest.” She was a writer-in-residence at the University of Iowa International Writing Program (’21) and has been repeatedly commissioned by the Greek National Opera, the National Broadcasting Company, the Athens-Epidaurus Festival, and the National Theatre of Greece. Her most recent commissions from the latter two institutions, respectively, include milk, blood (after Euripides’ Medea) and Revolutionary Ways to Clean Your Swimming Pool, which has been widely translated and received a EURODRAM award. She’s a regular contributor in Vogue Greece and teaches Creative Writing workshops at the University of Western Macedonia. She published the best-selling novel How Sea Urchins Kiss in 2017,and her latest book, Mother Mary Smoking in the Bathroom, a short story collection published in May 2023, became an instant #1 bestseller in Greece.

Hannah Kent is a translator, poet, and performing artist from Key West, FL. She earned an MFA in Literary Translation from the University of Iowa for her work translating ancient Greek poets and philosophers, during which time she also served as an editor and communications expert with the translation journal Ancient Exchanges. She was a team leader and political canvasser in New Hampshire for the 2022 primary elections, and now she’s based in New York City, ghostwriting memoirs and autobiographies. Find her @pol_udora.




James Richie translates Víctor Cabrera

Pandora’s Box Blues

Things are not often what they appear to be    

this box 

for example, 

whose script advertises 

                                    250 FRESH EGGS

In reality contains

40 dust-ridden books 


in their turns

thousands of pages

or rather

millions of words 

which must settle into

verses in heaps of meters

like arranging a room’s furniture, 

until everything finds its ideal place: 

the exact point for encountering the universe.

To instate the semblance of an order

everything dons its name as armor 

giving the world certainty and consistency 

(from ambiguous “a” all the way to “z”). 

What if everything were a fleeting order, 

chaos but in a different manner 

for populating the closet with frying pans, 

planting shrubs or ties in kitchens, 

or making the literary Hydra’s heads grow? 

What if every box

is Pandora’s box,

a nest where a language

can hatch fresh eggs? 


Pandora’s Box Blues

Las cosas no suelen ser lo que aparentan:

esa caja, 

por ejemplo,

cuya leyenda anuncia

                                    250 HUEVOS FRESCOS

contiene en realidad

40 libros polvorientos

que ostentan 

a su vez

miles de páginas,

o sea,

millones de palabras

que en versos de múltiples medidas

habrá que acomodar,

como se mueven los muebles de una sala,

hasta encontrar el sitio ideal de cada cosa,

el punto exacto en que transcurre su universo.

Cada cosa acorazada por su nombre

para instaurar un orden aparente

(desde la ambigua A hasta la zeta)

y dar al mundo certeza y consistencia.

¿Y si todo fuera un orden transitorio,

el caos pero de un modo diferente,

para poblar de sartenes los roperos

para sembrar en las cocinas arbustos o corbatas

o hacer crecer cabezas a la hidra del librero?

¿Si cada caja es

la caja de Pandora,

el nido en que un lenguaje 

empolla huevos frescos?


Supplication against the Rooster

Enemy of sleep 
Rival of dreamers. 

You herald 
the gray backstage,
the light’s atole
advancing, thickening
and everything spoils in the stiffness
of eight gravestone columns.
Foolish soup
mondongo, revoltijo 
the thick broth in which we come back to life 

Master of restlessness: 
leave the bed where lovers sleep
the cloud where Mariana breathes 
far from this world.

Lord of insomnia: 
you and your ilk reign over 
the basilisk and the cockatrice.
don’t be a beast. 
grant us some rest.  

Give us at least a while 
five more minutes
delay the morning 
cease your singing!
Chicken hearted
third-rate feathered tenor 
Shut your beak!   


Plegaria contra el gallo

Enemigo del sueño,
rival de los que sueñan.

Lo que anuncias:
entretelones de grisura,
el atole de la luz
que avanza espesa
y todo lo corrompe en el rigor
de sus ocho columnas lapidarias.
La sopa boba, 
el mondongo, el revoltijo:
el caldo gordo en que volvemos a la vida.

Patrón de la vigilia:
aléjate del lecho en que duermen los amantes
y de la nube en que respira
Marianna ajena al mundo.

Señor de los desvelos:
tú que prohíjas en tu estirpe
al basilisco y al cocatrix,
no seas bestia,
concédenos reposo.

Regálanos al menos otro rato,
cinco minutos más,
retrasa la mañana.
Detén tu canto,
corazón de pollo,
Emplumado tenor de poca monta,
¡cierra el pico!


Translator’s Note:

The element that I continue to find most striking about Cabrera’s poetry is his ability to put concepts, experiences, and works of art from seemingly different universes (that is to say parts of the world, traditions, languages, and levels of social prestige) into dialogue with one another. In the two poems included here, everyday occurrences, like the crowing of a rooster or a stack of books being placed in a box labelled as eggs, serve as gateways for a range of emotions from metalinguistic and metaliterary reflection to existential angst. In each poem, ordinary domestic life (like arranging furniture while moving or waking up in the morning) engages in conversations with mythology, philosophy, religion, and linguistics. 

In addition to Cabrera’s wide breadth of conceptual dialogues, his poems are also extremely well-crafted and detailed. In my translation of “Pandora’s Box Blues,” I evoke Cabrera’s rhyme scheme at times, while deviating from it in some sections. Specifically, I maintain the rhyme scheme when the poem shows how language can be used to establish order, and I drift away from the rhyme scheme when the poem shows how language can also create chaos. In “Supplication against the Rooster,” I highlight the elevated register and humorous tone of the poem. In addition to the juxtaposition of unlikely ideas and references, Cabrera’s humor is another one of my favorite elements in his poems. 


Víctor Cabrera is a poet and editor originally from Arriaga in the Chiapas State of Mexico. He is the author of many volumes of poetry including Signos de traslado (2007), Wide Screen (2009), Un jardín arrasado de cenizas (2014), and Mística del hastío (2017). Cabrera edited and wrote the introduction to the collected edition David Huerta: Poesía moderna (2019). Cabrera is a recipient of the Fondo National para la Cultura y los Artes (FONCA) scholarship. He works as an editor for the university press (Dirección general de publicaciones) of the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM). 

James Richie holds a Master of Arts in Language, Literature, and Translation from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. His translations have appeared in the Journal of Italian Translation, Four Centuries: Russian Poetry in Translation, and [Sic] a Journal of Literature, Culture, and Literary Translation. His academic writing has appeared in Translation Review and Vernacular: New Connections in Language, Literature, and Culture. He is currently pursuing his PhD with the Department of Comparative Humanities at the University of Louisville. 




Caroline Wilcox Reul translates Dinçer Güçyeter

The kitchen table

I place before you this phantom image of my childhood, a sweater vest, patched trousers, a crooked-collared shirt, a smile (wide as a stork’s wing), olives without meat, cheese heavy with mold, jelly with no fruit, a half-empty jar of nutella, my mother’s half-full cup of coffee, the quarter for my school snack, a tin of snuff (the absentmindedness of my father). there ought to be more on this table (propped with beer coasters), but I will leave it at that, the rest is the work of this poem

still as water / wary as wood is of fire / I remained hidden / in the depths of the well / under a heavy crust

I place before you this late pubescent fragment, place an adolesence in your lap. don’t try to tame it, to wash it, to comb its hair, to understand. let the circus animal behind these words howl. lay it down on the window sill, it needs to sleep, and dream, it needs to fashion the whisper of maple leaves with its paws. leave it be, it is worn from recounting, from walking through all the chambers of this palace, from the dueling voices that burrow through this poetry journal. the smell of burned toast will lead you there

in the hands of the living I am now open / peeled with the knife of time’s polyphony! / every word becomes a test of courage / every glance a narrowing of your eyes

I place a curse on these words (skin flourished with tattoos) and leave it there, I set about crafting the wings of the kite, my father says … I’ll come back, promise …

you will bind my hands / sew my mouth closed / but this heart / that sobs behind life / thirsts for naked fingers and toes / you can never sooth it again / now that it has sold itself 


The epic of Hera

She lay down under the pine
and gave birth to me
with my umbilical cord she was blindfolded
the afterbirth streamed through blades of grass
all the way down to our doorstep
she rested her head on the ivory
she numbed her pain with the vernix
and lay like an injured mare
under this pine tree

every night my father left his wife / every night in her fury she wanted to tear him limb from limb, he returned after she fell asleep / she slept soundly spent from crying tired to the bone / every night the radio cries with songs of home / I lie in bed with a chalky fever / for a bid of lust she was impregnated, for a pretty dress, for a faraway land, for a bridal veil without a wedding

she bore me and then her death began
now I am the accursed fruit of her ravaged garden
the razor slit in her milky skin
I am the one, the bow, the arrow, the court, and the executioner
failure itself, the betrayal, the victim
the unintelligible voice

every night she arrives with her blindfolded eyes / climbs from the coach, given over to an unknown destination / every night we fall asleep to these acts / one cries, the other flees, no one finds a home / every night I write poems to rouse my thoughts / slink past tracks, past cheap brothels, absorbed in my world / because every night my father left my mother / every night in her fury she wanted to tear him limb from limb / now I know, everyone should fear their own birth

she bore me, then her death began
she drank the three thousand year old poison of motherhood
and lay herself down under the pine
I am the ivory beneath her head
the guard at her doorstep
the razor and the stitches across her wound
mother, forgive me
I have completed my work


Translator’s Note:

Silence is a phantom. It seeps through windows, slips through pores, fills tiny and vast rooms, unnoticed perhaps until a child goes to the breakfast table and everything on it reminds of what is not there, loved ones whose care is apparent in absence, whose love is expressed in the jars and tins of loneliness, everything half full, half empty. And the devastating recognition by the child, grown to adulthood, that he was unintentionally culpable, that as loved as he was, he was a silencer too by his mere presence, that “no one finds a home” where economic issues dictate the household. These two poems by German poet, Dinçer Güçyeter, move in this space of emptiness: a child at a table populated by symbols of family, and a mother whose individuality ceases with the birth of that child, and finally as time continues, with a poet instilled with “dueling voices that burrow through this poetry journal.”

I myself was what used to be called a “latchkey child” in 1970s lingo until so many children “came home to an empty house” that the buzzword rendered itself irrelevant. I remember wishing my mother were home to make me an after-school snack and at the same time feeling capable at meeting my own needs, in a kind of conflicted lonely independence that carries through into my ever advancing adulthood. Never once though did I consider what effect my mere presence had on my mother in such a concrete fashion. Güçyeter’s desire, urge, imperative to speak out on both counts, to reenact the scenes of silence are a vehicle for both indictment and remorse, representing attempts perhaps to exorcise the phantom.

The poetry collection these come from, titled My Prince, I am the Ghetto, is a multi-modal lyric collage grounded in the poet’s autobiography. In excavations of memory and depictions of social realities for Germans of all ethnicities, dialog pervades every poem, every poetic cycle, every altered image, every theme the book addresses. Like in “The Kitchen Table” and “The Epic of Hera,” many poems in the collection are made up of two or three parts, each voice and gaze in conversation with its phantom self, just as the world they are revealing has an acknowledged surface and an undercurrent of silence. Güçyeter does the talking for both sides, until perhaps the day when the phantoms come back to the metaphorical table in physical form and real-world dialog happens. 


Dinçer Güçyeter grew up as the son of a barkeeper and a blue-collar worker. He went to night school to finish his high school diploma. From 1996 to 2000, he trained to be a tool and die maker. Occasionally, he worked in the food service industry. In 2012, Güçyeter founded Elif Verlag, a publishing house focused on poetry, financed by his part-time job as a forklift driver. His latest poetry collection, Mein Prinz, ich bin das Ghetto, won the Peter Huchel Prize in 2022. His first novel, Unser Deutschlandmärchen, was published in the fall of 2022 by Mikrotext.

Caroline Wilcox Reul is the translator of In the morning we are glass, by Andra Schwarz (Zephyr Press, 2021) and Who Lives by Elisabeth Borchers (Tavern Books, 2017), both from the German. Her translations have appeared in the PEN Poetry Series, The Los Angeles Review, Exchanges, Waxwing, The Michigan Quarterly Review, The Columbia Journal, and others.




Kim A Jensen & Judith Santopietro translate Roxana Crisólogo

This is a Forced Trip

a forced landing that forces me to spend six hours in Kiev 
when the plane approaches the runway 
and it seems we’re entering a storage site that leads to other sites 
more sophisticated more lonely more sad 
Too much has been written already about people forced to stay in one place 
forced to leave without explanation    forced to flee 
a forced geography 
genetically modified foods 
forced to abandon their essence 

I am from K   a forced country 
She speaks in statistics   
and can’t stop staring at an Orthodox Jewish family 
dragging several kids and a bunch of suitcases  

The number of dead has now surpassed the number of those who struggle 
for the liberation of any forced country of the world 
Which side are you from? 
from the ones who travel out of necessity or curiosity?  
who remove cartridges  projectiles  mines?   
leave messages   decode   decompose? 
stockpile gunpowder?  

From the ones who burn or are burned? 
From the military-technical cooperation? 
From the United Nations or NATO? 
From the photograph of a country that isn’t a country? 
From the postcard? 
From the botany of not taking sides with anyone? 
From the seeds of flowers that have no territory? 
From laboratories? 
From experiments? 
From cellular chemistry? 
From the contaminated nation? 

From all the girls with eyebrows mapped out like solar systems 
that live inside of me 

To be or not to be is not a dilemma but rather to align with an army on one side 
or the other–of the river Jordan 



I like knowing there’s someone else walking inside of me  
like an anchor-dog inside my footprints  
a built-in spirit who steps and coughs along with me 
who falls down and gets back up  
who corrects me    feeds me  
and sees me in the forced future  
[its parade of dust]     
my prehistoric side 
I used to stand at the door of my house waiting for the moment of detachment 
eye contact with that other part 

a forced root listening to itself grow  
doesn’t listen to the house invaded by other forced roots  
to be sympathetic  

They came to Lima to study   
they brought their neon colors and music in order to multiply and grow 
they picked a piece of land or invented it or invaded it 
and perhaps afterwards they also invented the river surrounded by stones 
without water     maybe even the house   

Poetry sold whatever was expelled by the air  
it nourished the scraps that denied its own existence 
filled silences with the strategies of an architect who empties cities   
poetry wanted beauty        they wanted cleanliness    
it trundled a wheelbarrow that filled up with ideals and mirrors     
forced to dispense with the basics: oxygen and water 
I saw myself transporting those who were wounded by its words  

I healed their lesions    brought them back to the world of broken wings    
brought them back to the demands of the market   

I used to ask my father and not my mother      she was worse off 
to sharpen the knives    
Poetry walked all day long pushing her discordant machine  
trailed by her grandson who was learning the trade and served as her eyes    
her Andean eyes had such small hands   
but everything: oxygen and water fit into her depths  
he was the future but I called him her eyes    
the eyes of poetry that looked at the present  



The woman says 
we refer to god with the words of god 
in other words    there’s a language for pleasure  
a special vocabulary for defining nuclear waste    
there’s electricity if you can pay for it      pleasure  
but the census doesn’t talk about that 
                                                             god and pleasure  
like first love like the first time  
they become a drowned chorus 

She’ll improvise a vocabulary for pleasure 
from her hands I’ll take the air      the butterflies 
I’ll save my breath 
to explain to the soldier that his statistics  
are useless 
there’s no way to justify massacres 
femicides      corruption     homophobia 
endangered species that with any luck 
will be turned into sheets of stickers  

A plan to industrialize Chernobyl should include  
maximum security for investors 
and a country forced to endure it  

The woman says I am a forced country 
showing off her muscle yes I can  
             she is neither tall nor blonde 
doesn’t wear a turban     and she won’t say it in English 
there’s a distance  
though she is right in front of me that’s all 
there’s a distance that reminds me 
of what we forget when living in a forced country   

Before god      there were few words   
She says      there was god before  


Este es un viaje forzado

un aterrizaje forzado que me obliga a pasar seis horas en Kiev 
cuando el avión se acerca a la pista de aterrizaje  
y parece que entramos a un almacén que conduce a otros almacenes  
más sofisticados más solitarios más tristes 
Se ha escrito demasiado sobre gente forzada a quedarse en un lugar 
forzada a partir sin explicación    forzada a dejar 
geografía forzada  
alimentos genéticamente manipulados  
forzados a abandonar su ser 

 Soy de K     un país forzado 
Ella habla en estadísticas  
no le quita la mirada a una familia judío-ortodoxa  
que arrastra varios niños y muchas maletas 

El número de muertos es tal que sobrepasa a los que lucharán  
por la independencia de cualquier país forzado del mundo  
¿De qué lado estás? 
¿del que viaja por curiosidad o por necesidad?  
¿remueve cartuchos   proyectiles   minas? 
¿deja mensajes   descifra   descompone? 
¿acumula pólvora?  

¿De los que queman o son quemados? 
¿De la cooperación técnico-militar? 
¿De la United Nations o de la OTAN? 
¿De la fotografía del país que no es el país? 
¿De la postal? 
¿De la botánica de no tomar partido por nadie? 
¿De las semillas de las flores que no conocen de territorios?  
¿De los laboratorios? 
¿De los experimentos?  
¿De la química celular? 
¿De la nación impura?   

De todas las muchachitas con las cejas demarcadas como sistemas solares  
que habitarán en mí  
Ser o no ser no es un dilema sino alinearse en un ejército de un lado  
o del otro del río Jordán  


Me gusta saber que hay alguien más que camina en mí  
como un perro ancla en mis huellas    
un ánima pegadita que pisa y tose después de mí  
que se cae y se levanta  
que me corrige   que me alimenta  
que me ve en el futuro forzado  
[su desfile de polvo]     
mi lado fósil  
yo me paraba en la puerta de mi casa a esperar ese desprendimiento 
el contacto visual con mi otra parte 


una raíz forzada escuchándose crecer  
no escucha la casa invadida por otras raíces forzadas  
a ser simpáticas 

 Llegaron a Lima para estudiar   
trajeron los colores fosforescentes y la música para multiplicarse y crecer 
eligieron un campo o lo inventaron o lo invadieron 
y quizás entonces también inventaron el río rodeado de piedras 
sin agua y la casa  

La poesía vendía lo que expulsaba el aire  
alimentaba la chatarra que le negaba un lugar 

 llenaba los silencios con la estrategia del arquitecto que vaciará ciudades    
quería belleza   querían limpieza    
empujaba una carretilla que llenó de ideales y espejitos     
forzada a prescindir de lo fundamental: oxígeno y agua 
me imaginaba trasladando a los heridos de esas palabras    
les curaba los hoyos y los devolvía al mundo de las alas rotas    
los devolvía a la necesidad del mercado  

Le pedía a mi padre y no a mi madre   a ella le tocó la peor parte   
que afilara los cuchillos    
La poesía caminaba todo el día empujando su máquina desafinadora  
seguida de su nieto que aprendía el oficio y era sus ojos    
sus ojos aindiados tenían unas manos pequeñas    
pero todo: oxígeno y agua cabían en su profundidad  
era el futuro pero yo le llamaba sus ojos    
eran los ojos de la poesía que miraban el presente   



La mujer dice 
a dios te refieres con las palabras de dios 
en otras palabras   hay un idioma para el placer  
hay un vocabulario especial para definir residuos nucleares    
hay electricidad para el que paga   hay placer  
pero de eso no habla la encuesta 
dios y placer  
como el primer amor como la primera vez  
se transforman en un coro ahogado 

Ella improvisará un vocabulario para el placer 
de sus manos tomaré el aire   las mariposas 
dejaré lo preciso  
para explicarle al soldado que sus estadísticas  
no sirven 
no hay forma de justificar masacres  
feminicidios   corrupción   homofobia 
especies en extinción que con suerte  
convertirán en láminas stickers  

Un plan para industrializar Chernóbil debería incluir  
máxima seguridad para los inversionistas 
y un país forzado a soportarlo 

 La mujer dice soy un país forzado 
mostrando el músculo yes I can    
no es alta ni rubia 
no usa turbante   ni lo dirá en inglés 
hay una distancia  
aunque está frente a mí that´s all 
hay una distancia que me recuerda 
lo que se olvida viviendo en un país forzado  

Antes de dios   había pocas palabras   
Ella dice   antes estaba dios 


Translators’ Note:

Roxana Crisólogo’s latest book Kauneus: la belleza (Beauty) is a distinguished collection of provocative and formally innovative poems that give voice to the alienation and ironies of exile and migration—within a leftist framework that is embedded within the global struggle against structural racism and inequality. Set in Peru, Finland, and other regions from Mozambique to Palestine to Turkey, the poems offer a transnational, intergenerational feminist poetic, irrigated from the vein of 20th century defeats. 

The challenging yet beautiful sequences in Kauneus delve into her family’s experience of internal displacement, replicated across Peru which has seen waves of migrants leaving rural communities in search of opportunities in Lima. Crisólogo brings this diasporic sensibility as she writes about other “forced countries” and the refugees who flee poverty, violence, and climate catastrophe.  

One of the challenges of translating these poems that others have deemed as “untranslatable” is the swift thematic upheavals, the ever-shifting subjectivities, and the rhetorical leaps that mark her style. While not inaccessible at the level of grammar, the poems are multivalent and invite a synaptic, intuitive reading. Having studied law, Crisólogo deploys then subverts an ironic form of ‘legalese,’ drawing attention to the thick cushion of illogic that undergirds the dichotomies between the global north and the global south. Ultimately the seemingly unrelated strands coalesce into a mosaic that is both figurative and abstract. 

Judith and I have spent a great deal of time and care in rendering the complexities and the lyrical dexterity of these sometimes-bewildering texts, especially this one and its complex middle section, which Crisólogo would describe as muy, pero muy aindiado: I mean really Andean/Indian/Indigenous.


Roxana Crisólogo is a poet, translator, and cultural director who studied law. Her books of poetry include Abajo sobre el cielo (Lima, 1999) whose Finnish translation was published by Kääntöpiiri, Helsinki, 2001; Animal del camino (Lima, 2001); Ludy D (Lima, 2006); Trenes (Mexico, 2010, republished by Ediciones Libros del Cardo, Chile in 2019); and Eisbrecher (Icebreaker) Hochroth Verlag (Berlin, 2017). An anthology of her poetry has been translated into Italian, Sotto sopra il cielo (Down above the Sky) was published by Seri Editore. Kauneus: la belleza (Intermezzo Tropical, Lima, 2021) is her latest book of poetry, republished by Ediciones Nebliplateada, Buenos Aires, 2023. Crisólogo is the founder of Sivuvalo Platform, a multilingual literature association based in Helsinki. She was president of the association of Finnish left-wing artists and writers, Kiila. She was recently awarded a grant from the Finnish Kone Foundation to work on the Sivuvalo project. Crisólogo literary work and projects have been supported by the Finnish foundations, Kone Foundation, Finnish Literature Exchange, Arts Promotion Centre Finland, Kari Mattila Säätiö and the Finnish Cultural Foundation. She lives and works in Helsinki. (Photo: Dirk Skiba) 

Kim Jensen is a Baltimore-based writer, poet, educator, and translator who has lived in California, France, and Palestine. Her books include an experimental novel, The Woman I Left Behind, and two collections of poems, Bread Alone and The Only Thing that Matters. Active in transnational peace and social justice movements for decades, Kim’s writings have been featured in Transition, International Human Rights Arts Festival, Another Chicago Magazine, Electronic Intifada, Mondoweiss, Extraordinary Rendition: Writers Speak Out on Palestine, Gaza Unsilenced, Bomb Magazine, Sukoon, Mizna, Revista el Humo, Left Curve, Liberation Literature, and many others. In 2001, she won the Raymond Carver Award for short fiction. Kim is currently professor of English and Creative Writing at the Community College of Baltimore County, where she co-founded an interdisciplinary literacy initiative that demonstrates the vital connection between classroom learning and social justice in the broader community.  

Judith Santopietro is a Mexican writer who was awarded the writing residency at the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa in 2022. She was a finalist for the 2020 Sarah Maguire Prize for Poetry in Translation for her book Tiawanaku. Poems from the Mother Coqa, translated by Ilana Dann Luna. She has published in the Anuario de Poesía Mexicana 2006 (Fondo de Cultura Económica), Rio Grande Review, and The Brooklyn Rail, andhas also participated in the PEN America’s World Voices Festival in New York in 2018. Santopietrohas carried out research residencies in the Sierra de Zongolica and Tecomate, Veracruz; theTeresa Lozano Long Institute of Latin American Studies, Texas; and the University of Leiden, The Netherlands; as well as in New York and Bolivia. She is writing a novel on indigenous migrationin the US, and a documentary poetry book on enforced disappearance in Mexico. 




Sean Zhuraw translates Theodor Däubler


Why does it recur to me ever oftener 
One Evenfall Dell, its Brook and Firs? 
One Star peers fathomably lower 
And dawns on me: from thence in silence I transfer.

Then I am drawn far from good Mortals. 
What could embitter me solely so? 
The Bells catch on to their tolls, 
And starts the Star to glissando.


Warum erscheint mir immer wieder
Ein Abendtal, sein Bach und Tannen?
Es blickt ein Stern verständlich nieder
Und sagt mir: wandle still von dannen.

Dann zieh ich fort von guten Leuten.
Was konnte mich nur so verbittern?
Die Glocken fangen an zu läuten,
Und der Stern beginnt zu zittern. 


Evening Bound

Will no lovelier Bird sing? 
Each Scrub remains voiceless. 
Only an Imago with flowerful Wings
Revels round the Field of abounding Ryegrass. 

Sunflowers kneel back down to Earth. 
Tanned Shadows cling to the nigh Wall:
Grave, sweat-soaked Horses pull forth,
Through the lowering Land, high Hauls.

Gegen Abend

Will kein lieber Vogel singen?
Alle Büsche bleiben stumm.
Nur ein Falter mit beblümten Schwingen
Tummelt sich im Roggenfeld herum.

Sonnenblumen neigen sich zur Erde.
Braune Schatten haschen nach der Wand:
Schweißbesickert ziehen schwere Pferde
Hohe Fuhren durchs verwolkte Land. 


Translator’s Note:

Like much of Theodor Däubler’s lyric poetry, “Oft” and “Evening Bound” both distill and cavort in the mythopoetic light and shadow cast by his epic literary debut, Das Nordlicht (The Northern Lights). Däubler describes the central image of auroral light as celestial odyssey in these exuberant terms: 

I was overjoyed to feel that the earth contained within it much of the sun and this solar element combined with us to fight against gravity, striving to joined once more with the sun. … There is a gleaming penetration between that sun which has been released from the bonds of earth and the divine sun itself – and this causes the polar light within the month long darkness of the poles! The earth is longing to become a radiant star again (translation by Raymond Furness from his book Zarathustra’s Children).

In “Evening Bound,” polar opposites (light and darkness, earth/chthonian and heavens/ethereality, death and revival, singularity and community) are both bound together and released, leveraged as an image of transformative flight, and perhaps as a departure from an everyday process of binary thought and identity. The Imago at the center of the poem is drawn from the German word “Falter,” which can either refer to a moth or a butterfly depending on the time of day. Those who pin down winged insects may be called Lepidopterists, though the term “Aurelian” is archaic designation for them, drawn from the fleeting golden color of the beings who emerge from an aurelia, or chrysalis. Since “Evening Bound” is set during the liminality of twilight, or the golden hour if you prefer, I landed on the word “Imago” to preserve the union of opposites I felt in Däubler’s use of ambiguity, for he could have chosen one of the more definitive terms for this image: Tagfalter or day-flyer (butterfly) and Nachfalter or night-flyer (moth). Imago also carries a psychic charge: it refers to an unconscious idealized image of some figure that holds sway over one’s actions, such as a parent, or, in Däubler’s heliocentric cosmology, our closest radiating star, the animating sun. 

Along those same lines, the speaker of “Oft” appears to me in a kind of liminal orbit, recalling either an apotheosis or exile from humanity that tightens as rebounds. I found it difficult to align musical and imagistic sense in English, especially in the second and fourth lines in both stanzas. In the first stanza, rather than “Firs,” I originally preferred “Pines” for its underground resonance as yearning; though I think both words, when felled, can be traversed as bridges to solstice traditions that center eternal light. Firs has a rhyming advantage with “transfer,” which is how I translate the two-fold ambiguity of the verb “wandle” here: it compresses the action of walking with that of transforming, another resonance of departing. This tension, including my own faltering towards Däubler’s music, is what led me to hear an operatic richness in the shuddering and trembling of “zittern,” the original poem’s final word. 


Theodor Däubler (1876-1934) is the author of more than twenty books of poetry, prose, and art criticism, including The Starchild, The Starlit Path, With Silver Sickle, Hymn to Italy, The New Standpoint, and his debut epic The Northern Lights. Däubler served as the chair of the German PEN club, was awarded the Goethe Medal, and in 1928 was nominated for Nobel prize in literature. Portrait by Hugo Erfurth.


Sean Zhuraw’s poetry and translations have appeared in Boston Review, The Hopkins Review, Tin House, The Offing, Defunct, Denver Quarterly, and elsewhere. He earned degrees from Columbia and the Iowa Writers’ Workshop where he won the John Logan poetry prize. He teaches English and Creative Writing at the Community College of Philadelphia. He lives gayly in West Philly with his husband and two cats. His Instagram is @toystutter.




Robert Eric Shoemaker translates Federico García Lorca

from The Lorca Book

Hid himself in letters

Stand up and become human, he said

I’m laid down in letters

He wanted an audience of sex and death

An orgy laid down in letters

He dragged danger like daggers clatter across steel sheets

His danger covered the stage in letters

Absurd, his shadow a flitting pose of blood,

He hid himself in death.

There was danger in his sheets,

Two bullets in his bu[m]hole (sic.)

For being queer, it was said.

He lay down in a letterless grave;

Buried outside of letters, his shadow flitting dangerous.

The letters just didn’t become human

His audience a thin mask of letters

Jets of blood absurd jets of confetti

Four horsemen no four men in suits

He wanted an audience of sex and death

I’m laying him in letters

When we cry for jets of blood

Instead of death in cubicles and jail cells

The IRS and the FBI

Hear me hear our shadows flitting

The letters don’t work

He broke bread like Jesus bleeding in childhood

saying his prayers listening like someone was listening

Asking for his jet of blood 

Proof of living (IRS letter box)

Is he listening to me now?

Letters never work

We want real REAL lemons 





Jets of death

Solid living lemons

I can lay down with

Because you touched me 

Because I am grabbable gravable buryable

This is evidence

A real body in letters 

(Or maybe these letters

(Look look the letters

Are failing


The Silent boy

    The little boy looks for his voice. 
    (The King of the Crickets had it.) 
               In a droplet of water, 
   The little boy looked for his voice. 

          I don’t want it for speaking. 
   With her, I will myself make a ring 
             That will carry my silence 
             On your tiny little finger. 

        Far away, the voice is caught 
        Putting on a cricket’s garb.   

first and mutely 
mute sing spring 
of grasshoppers’ bodies 
first before the mutation 
               loud bodies corpseing 
before the first corporeal 
corpse of grasshoppers sing 

The corpus

body of mutated boys 

sings first 

grasshoppers’ king 


The mute boy’s 









   the first corporeal mutation, 

the body of loud bodies sings: 
first king of grasshoppers’ bodies, 
loud corpus of grasshoppers sing.  
Mutely, boys before the first corpus, 
the body of grasshoppers sing. 
Mutation before the first king, 
the corpse of grasshoppers sing. 

Before mutation, the body feeds mutely
the grasshopper wings, 
so he may sing 
through the corpus of 
grasshopper kings 
before the first mutation
the body feeds the boy
the mute bodice, king
first boy sing
(the king of crickets had it)
el primer hombre
la pintura de las alas
comiendo el muchacho
cuerpo en cuerpo,
rey en el rey

Translator’s Note:

I’ve been translating Lorca’s work for over 10 years, and I have recently begun an experimental project channeling the poet himself. Channeling is a form of translation, and over the course of becoming a “Lorca translator,” which I call myself rather than a “Spanish translator,” I’ve come to think of these praxes as the same. In translation and in channeling, I am listening. Lorca is a queer ancestor, and so I try to listen to his work and divine my own place in relation to it, which means placing myself and my text. Just as with translation, using channeling results in mistakes and misreadings which, I think, can be strong interpretations all the same. 

My project of mistranslating Lorca by channeling is under the working title “The Lorca Book” in homage to Robert Duncan’s H.D. Book. Both are in direct communication with forebears who share formal praxes and identities with the author-medium. Through ritual and invocation, Lorca became a sounding board and a mask for my author self, and throughout the book, we converse in the margins—which I think is what any translation is formed from, whether the translator chooses to hide the conversation or not.


Federico García Lorca (1898–1936) was a Spanish poet and playwright who, in a career that spanned just 19 years, engaged and revitalized Spanish poetry and theatre by fusing tradition with modernism. Lorca’s most well-known works include the poetry collection Poeta en Nueva York (Poet in New York) and the “rural dramas”* Bodas de sangre (Blood Wedding), Yerma (Barrens), and La casa de Bernarda Alba (Bernarda Alba and her House). He was executed by a Spanish nationalist firing squad in the first months of the Spanish Civil War. Photo: Federico García Lorca at Columbia University, 1929. Courtesy of the Fundación Federico García Lorca.
*English titles are translated by Shoemaker.

Robert Eric Shoemaker is a poet and interdisciplinary artist. Eric is the author of Ca’Venezia(2021, Partial Press), We Knew No Mortality(2018, Acta Publications), and 30 Days Dry(2015, Thought Collection Publishing). His poetry, translations, and essays have been published in Rattle, Jacket2, Signs and Society, Asymptote, Entropy, Gender Forum, Exchanges, and others. Eric earned a PhD from the University of Louisville and an MFA from Naropa University. He is the digital archive editor at the Poetry Foundation. Photo by Sally Blood.




Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor & Kuo Zhang translate Nianxi Chen

Eternal Grace Is Never Clear

1932-1933                  the Great Famine
in Soviet Ukraine                    five million people dead.
84 years later              at the commemorative ceremony
Poroshenko in front of the starved girl’s statue
knelt down with grace.

He didn’t offer flowers,
but a bouquet of wheat,
some apples               berries.
He probably knew       only hunger
flowered                      in the girl’s world.

I remember what my grandfather, long gone, said:
wheat can speak         but not everyone can hear it,
which means               life’s a blind road.
Eternal grace is never clear.

Those who’ve passed away
have always been here;
always tranquility’s light remains.


乌克兰大饥荒              饿死五百万人
八十四年后                 纪念仪式上

一些苹果         浆果
他大概知道      少女的世界里
再也没有鲜花              只有饥饿

麦穗是会开口的          但并不让每个人听见
意思是             日子是条盲道



The Sea Is Buried with A Dead Poet

Following the waves’ sound    I come to this water.
A man who’s never been to the sea       
knows most about what the sea is burying.
The sea cannot be extinguished           but it can be polluted.
Like the history of modern civilization               it contains evidence of being fucked.

This vast sea            
bearer of  steel              labor                Adidas Originals         to the other side.
Once it delivered the blue-eyed gunboats,
filled with our ancestors’ black powder canons.
Now     it buries a poet            and his below the assembly line youth.
The soul, imprisoned for his first 24 years                 is here.
Lizhi, are you free? 

I start from Suiyang,    take a ride,
arrive at Zunyi Airport,            fly to Shenzhen in the Big Mac Beetle.
I rushed to this sea under the scorching sun, no one in sight.
Over the years            I’ve seen too many withered youth
in marshes      in mountains               on their way to breezes and the bright moon.
Youth or poetry           neither moved by the filth and blue of the sea.
I’m here           to complete some part of my life’s journey,
to see how seagulls fly through a cold June day.

Where the sea meets the sky
there are hidden islands.
It’s said that’s where, for some years, the gods lived.
Now     they’re rowing the industrial sampan boat
past palm trees,          tall       fluttering near the sea.
This rotating                fish-mongering wall clock’s     been out of alignment for many years.


循着涛声         我来到这片水域
大海不能拆迁              但可以脏污
像一部现代文明史       布满交媾的痕迹

向彼岸输送过钢铁       劳工     阿迪达斯的代工鞋子
如今     它埋葬着一位诗人       和他低于机台的青春
那二十四年被禁锢的灵魂        在这里

我从绥阳起身              搭乘顺风车
赶到遵义机场              再搭乘巨无霸的甲壳虫飞往深圳
这些年             我看见了太多凋谢的青春
或谢于大泽      或谢于高山      或凋谢于去往清风明月的路上
青春或诗歌      从来无动于大海的肮脏与蔚蓝
我来     不过是完成此生路程的某些部分

如今     住着工业的舢板
临海的棕榈树              高大     招展
这转动的         鱼汛的挂钟      已失准多年

Translators’ Note:

These two poems illustrate Nianxi Chen’s opportunities as he moved from laboring in China’s mines to becoming the Labor Poet Laureate in 2016. With this honor, Chen was invited to travel nationally and internationally and these poems reflect experiences away from his life as a migrant worker.  In “Eternal Grace is Never Clear” we find a surprising connection Nianxi made in 2017 to actions taken by the 5th president of Ukraine, Petro Poroshenko. Readers can view an image Nianxi likely saw on the news as he related to experiences of poverty and hunger around the world.  Nianxi wrote: “This poem describes my feelings and thoughts when I passed by a vegetable market one day. The market triggered my memories of many things. The thoughts about Poroshenko and the Great Famine in Ukraine come from a picture on the Internet. The scene is a commemoration event in Ukraine. Human hunger and disaster are the same. Equally unforgettable.”

“The Sea is Buried with A Dead Poet” was written to memorize Lizhi Xu, a poet and worker who jumped to his death at Foxconn factory at the young age of 24. His ashes were scattered in the sea.  Nianxi wrote, “In 2019, I went to Shenzhen to participate in a literary event and went to the seaside alone to pay homage to this talented poet who died young. The poem also contains my own life and destiny, as well as my helplessness and sigh for an era. What I strive for in poetry is that it be concise but not simple. A drop of water reflects the sea.

As poets and scholars in the field of Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages (TESOL) it has been our great honor to collaborate on translations of these fine poems.  Kuo Zhang introduced Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor to poet Nianxi Chen and his unique voice to represent a life full of labor and hardship as a miner in one of the most desolate areas in China. Working on the first English translation of his work, we were moved by Nianxi’s personal hardships as a mine blaster as well as the depth of his reflections on the great precarity of the human condition. As his co-workers lost limbs and lives, Nianxi suffered hearing loss and black lung disease, using a barrel of explosives after work as a writing table. His poetry showcases the depth of intelligence and persistence that can arise from one of the many darkest corners in the world. 


Nianxi Chen, born in 1970 at Danfeng, Shannxi Province, began writing poems in 1990. In 1999, he left his hometown and labored 16 years as a miner. In 2015, discontinued mining work due to occupational disease. In 2016, he was awarded the Laureate Worker Poet Prize.  His poetry and life were featured in a 2018 documentary entitled Demolition Work about migrant worker poets in China.  His book, Records of Explosion (Taibai Wenyi Press) provides lyrical documentation of the hidden costs behind China’s financial boom.  Translations of Chen’s poems have appeared in Tupelo Quarterly, Rattle, Plume, and Pedestal Magazines.

Melisa Cahnmann-Taylor, Professor of Language and Literacy Education at the University of Georgia, is the author of Imperfect Tense (poems), and five scholarly books in education. Winner of NEA Big Read Grants, the Beckman award for Professors Who Inspire, and a Fulbright for nine-month study of adult Spanish language acquisition in Oaxaca Mexico, she’s served for over ten years as poetry editor for Anthropology & Humanism, judging the ethnographic poetry competition. Her poems and essays have appeared in Georgia Review, American Poetry Review, Women’s Quarterly Review, Cream City Review, Barrow Street, and many other literary and scholarly homes. melisacahnmanntaylor.com.

Kuo Zhang is a faculty member in Teacher Education at Siena College and received her PhD in TESOL & World Language Education at the University of Georgia. She has a bilingual book of poetry in Chinese and English, Broadleaves (Shenyang Press). Her poem, “One Child Policy” was awarded second place in the 2012 Society for Humanistic Anthropology (SHA) Poetry Competition held by the American Anthropological Association. Her poems have appeared in The Roadrunner Review, Lily Poetry Review, Bone Bouquet, DoveTales, North Dakota Quarterly, Literary Mama, Mom Egg Review, Adanna Literary Journal, Raising Mothers, MUTHA Magazine, and Anthropology and Humanism.