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“The Lake” (parts 1 to 3 of Dead Letter Office) and “After Objects” by Marko Pogačar (translated from the Croatian by Andrea Jurjević) Photography by Dora Held
Dead Letter Office is forthcoming in March 2020 by The Word Works.
The Lake
Again that tragic
Mixing up of things and folks.
— Novica Tadić1.
I am the lake, I set out
in the morning from the slow cocoon of the sun—
sink into myself as if into a silent room or despair.
plants nest in my chest
like wading birds nest in shrubs,
the eternal choir of grass blades. -
“Showers in Barrio Bagol” by Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano (translated from the Cebuano by John Bengan) Artwork by Kenneth Paul Senarillos
Showers in Barrio Bagol
Here in Lumbang, the rice fields are as wide as the sky. We measure time with the sun. The rising of the sun signals the tilling of soil, our daily labor. The sunset signals the time to rest our bodies.
Since I became aware of my surroundings, this has been our life: no labor, no food. There have been nights when we had nothing to eat especially when nobody would hire us to work. My children are used to our situation. We may be poor, but I work hard so my children could go to school,
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Two Poems by Lisa Boyce
Feathers and Silk
it used to be your chest was my pillow
temporarily of course – always temporarily –
you needed more space
said you couldn’t fall asleep
sweaty limbs tangled like sheets
while I – girl who sweats
through her shirts
when it’s 30 degrees out
– wanted
onlytobecloser
devised a way to get nearer to your heart
dreamed of cracking open your chest
so I could crawl inside
be at the center of it all
sometimes if I squeeze my eyes tight enough
the pillow I am holding
becomes your chest
– but softer –
it does not smell like you
– roast chicken and orchids –
I burrow deeper
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“Long Vacation” by Jake Bauer
I am a person in need of a very
long vacation to a very cold climate.
There, one can ski out onto
the ice which is actually
a frozen-over cup of water
waiting on the nightstand
of a thief after a quick job. A boy
had to die. The world is big
then it is diamond-small
and you slip it in your pocket
on your way out the door, thinking
I’ll need this later.*
Jake Bauer is the Marketing Director for Saturnalia Books.
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“Bird” by Jenna Le
We heard her and came running
We heard her
wings blurred
We heard her fly up the metal chute
only to find herself self-entrapped in our laundry room
self-buried in our linen hoard
her exit route barred
We heard her throat burr
We heard her
wings blurred so we came running
feet bare on the red-carpeted stairs
We heard her so we herded her
We harried her toward an opened window, a soft sunlit square
amid the hard boards
We hurried her and harried her
and herded her toward the open air
our broom-waving horde must have seemed to her a horror
for all that we heralded her liberty
*
Jenna Le authored Six Rivers (NYQ Books, -
Two poems by Allan Popa (translated from the Filipino by Bernard Capinpin) Artwork by Lorina Tayag Capitulo
Narrative
I wish to be a monk
is what I often tell anyone
whom I want to befriend.The kind that doesn’t show himself to others
for solitude is prayer.I would not be surprised if they mention
that a dream not far from my own
had once entered their minds.If it had been in the aisle of a monastery where we
had first met, perhaps, we would have paused togetherat a single bead of a mystery we recited on our way
back to each of our own cells at the corner
to bow for a moment as a recognitionthat we have already met
although it is only our hands that can be seen.
