The Creation of Eve

By John B. Lee

Michelangelo painted a zoftig Eve on the Sistine Chapel ceiling with Adam asleep as though dreaming in awkward recline like someone fallen to ground his head cradled in the bole of a broken-branch tree he appears as though he were snap-necked unconscious or dead and old-man Jehovah is raising his right arm in creation while Eve with her palms in prayer is rising a stringless marionette come to life as it is with the soft geometry of something captured in oil something a swim in the sweet viscosity of the first consciousness of morning her body full-formed in the Fresco every molecule of them all cross-veined with cracks in the paint like drought in dry clay her left leg dark as the stone as though she were partially stone instead of old plaster as though she were scaled like a fish or a snake a mermaid or silkie a surreal companion come to life fully formed

Peace

By Katharine Beeman

An island baby’s first bath in his sea and here are no bombs no bombs no bombs to fall.

Paz

Por Katharine Beeman

El primer encuentro de Carlitos con su mar y aquí no hay bombas no hay bombas no hay bombas que puedan caer.

First appeared in: La revista digital III Festival internacional de poesía

“Patria Grande Latinoamericana y el Caribe”, noviembre, 2020

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias

LÁGRIMAS Y JUGO DE PERA

Para Alianna, mi hijastra querida (Gracias a tu mamá y tu padre por confiar en mí)

¡Nos conocemos desde hace 15 años!

Eras una niña vivaz, pícara y muy risueña, cualidad que te acompaña ahora a tus 25. Ha pasado tanto tiempo y nos llevamos bien a pesar de haber sido inicialmente un extraño, a pesar de la diferencia de edad. No sé de qué te acuerdas: “Miguel, la leche está muy caliente, enfríala un poquito” o “Miguel, la leche está muy fría, caliéntala un poquito” o “Miguel, mira a ver cómo quedó mi trenza”. No sé si recuerdas cuando en la comida una noche te dije, “¡Mira, un elefante!” y volteaste tu cabecita inocente mientras yo “secuestraba” tu posta de pollo. Cuando miraste tu plato, abriste tus ojazos y te reíste a carcajadas, con ese tintineo feliz que nunca has perdido. Me pregunto si en tus memorias está aquella vez en que te traje un biberón diste saltos de alegría y corriste a casa para enseñarlo a Mamá…

Hoy te pido disculpas por mis posibles errores como padrastro. Soy solo humano.

Pero al final de los años, desempeñé ese rol que me asignó tu madre dándome una confianza que jamás violenté, y que honré cada día y noche que me quedé a tu lado. Y tú también me asignaste roles: cuidarte, respetarte, jugar contigo, ayudarte, estar allí para ti en las ocasiones en que nos quedamos solos para que Mamá cumpliera con su deber. Gracias por devolver respeto y cariño. Gracias porque luego de mi operación, hecha toda una mujer, viniste a verme al hospital y más que una lágrima salió de tus ojos (y me hiciste llorar a mí…). Gracias por tus almuerzos (¡cocinas más rico que Mamá!), gracias por tu dulzura siempre, GRACIAS por Aitana, y gracias por ese exquisito jugo de pera que generosa me regalaste en momentos de necesidad.

Miguel Ángel Olivé Iglesias TEARS AND PEAR JUICE

For Alianna, my dear stepdaughter (Thank you to your mom and your father for trusting me)

We´ve known each other for 15 years! You were a vivacious, playful and cheerful child, a quality still accompanying you now that you´re 25. So much time has flown by and we´ve gotten along well despite my being a stranger back then, despite the age difference.

I don´t know what you remember: “Miguel, the milk is too hot, cool it a little” or “Miguel, the milk is too cold, heat it a little” or “Miguel, see if my braid is ok.”

I don´t know if you recall when during dinner one night I told you, “Look, an elephant!” and you turned your little innocent head while I “kidnapped” your chicken portion. When you looked back at your plate, you opened your big eyes and burst into laughter, with that happy jingling that has stayed with you. I wonder if you hold in your memories the time I brought you a baby bottle you jumped in joy and ran home to show it to Mom…

Today I apologize for my possible mistakes as a stepfather. I am just human. But at the end of the years, I played the role your mother gave me with a confidence I never defiled, and which I honored each day and night I stayed with you. And you assigned me roles too: watching over you, respecting you, playing with you, helping you, being there every time we were alone, so Mom could do her duty. Thank you for returning respect and affection. Thank you because after my surgery, a full-fledged woman, you came to visit me at the hospital and more than a tear rolled down from your eyes (and you made me cry…). Thank you for your lunches (your cooking excels your Mom´s!), thank you for your sweetness always, THANK YOU for Aitana, and thank you for that yummy pear juice that you generously gave me in times of need.

By Mike Gaudeaur

By Víctor Manuel Velázquez

El caso es que Naguib Sawiris me compró un cuadro. Yo sin saber de quién se trataba (aunque algo raro se movía entre la gente del Saratoga, todos nerviositos, y la pila de segurosos pululando, y el inefable tipo de inversiones del turismo embellecido y patriarcal con una guayabera que era como un rayo de esperanza), le dispensé el trato gélido que reservo a los yumas, le di la espalda, injuriándolo con mi desdén, y le conté el dinero delante, para evitar equívocos. Compró mi cuadro del Apagón y un pedazo de Cuba con mar, eso me dice alguien después. Me dio su contacto, que aquí lo tengo oyendo la conversación, y vi su avión perderse, rumbo a El Cairo, donde por culpa de su hermano no es el hombre más obscenamente rico de Egipto.

Por la desimportante pieza pagó mi sueldo de médico de más de un año, que es igual a decir nada. No sabe él que debajo del Apagón que adquirió a precio de cochino enfermo, hay sacrificado un retrato azul de José Julián Martí Pérez que llora por nosotros.

The fact is that Naguib Sawiris bought a painting from me. Me without knowing who he was (although something strange moved among the people of the Saratoga, all nervous, and loads of security swarming, and the indescribable type of embellished and patriarchal tourism investments with a guayabera that was like a ray of hope ), I gave him the icy treatment I reserve for yumas, I turned my back, insulting him with my disdain, and I counted the money in front of him, to avoid misunderstandings.

He bought my Blackout painting and a piece of Cuba with sea, that's what someone tells me later. He gave me his contact, I have him here listening to the conversation, and I saw his plane lose itself, heading to Cairo, where thanks to his brother he is not the most obscenely rich man in Egypt.

For the unimportant piece he paid my salary as a doctor for more than a year, which is the same as saying nothing. He doesn’t know that under the Blackout he bought at the price of a sick pig, there’s a sacrificed blue portrait of José Julián Martí Pérez who weeps for us.

By Víctor Manuel Velázquez

The Chair

I stare At the chair Where I stroked the hair Of the lady Who once sat there.

By Graham Ducker

My wonderful wife Who gave meaning to my life Passed away.

Despite efforts of assistance, There was no resistance, As she slowly faded Into an eternal sleep.

The Nightly Routine

By Graham Ducker

Each night that I knew my Stella is beside me, I reached across and stroked through her hair.

Stroke

I made certain the blankets covered her shoulders.

Stroke

“It’s supposed to be warmer today.”

Stroke

“We’ll go into the living room later.”

Stroke

“There is more to see out there than in here.”

Stroke

“The squirrels should be running around.”

Stroke

“Two ladies brought some baking for us.”

Stroke

“We’ll have some for breakfast.”

Stroke

“I love you.”

Stroke

Stroke

Stroke

My heart is breaking.

Deer Placidly Sitting In Your Backyard

By Miguel Angel Olivé Iglesias

Dear Tai, I have seen and taken great delight in the pic you sent me of a little deer that found shelter in your backyard. It looks so calm, so cool as if almost posing for your camera, as if sensing it was being captured in an image for posterity. A thing of beauty.

I envy the instant, magnificent, heart-warming. I envy the deer so at home on the grass, so at ease among humans. How close could you get? How thrilled were you?

Thank you for sharing. We just loved it. Here, where no deer amble about nor sit to rest threat-free and be admired, Wingman Miguel

By Richard Marvin Tiberius Grove(Tai)

By Mike Gaudeaur

By Mike Gaudeaur