by J.B. Sisson

In 1666 there lived a duke
whose angels told him, “All the world is crude.
Ignore the fools who call you Monsieur Prude.
Proud Duke of Mazarin, flounce your peruke
and give your kitchenmaids a sharp rebuke.
You’ve seen them milk the cows with fingers rude
and a sly squeeze.  You know their thoughts are lewd.
No wonder these punk hoydens make you puke.”
Those puckish angels filled the duke with dread.
Eventually his fickle duchess fled.
He called his servants to his potting shed
and, since he had become a tulip, said,
“Transplant me to my favorite flower bed
and every day spray water on my head.”

by Janice Miller Potter

of a century
happened just like that
at your dad’s estate sale
a snapshot of you at

six months fell from a box
that romper your mother
sewed on her Singer
was trodden by a heel

still your baby face
beams through an oily map
while your paddies reach
for a great bid ball

should you be sold
now that Vietnam’s cinnamon
and you are a hostage
no child of yours will save

with Doughboys and GIs
they fire you blanks
for your soldier’s pay but
we play tapes that rasp

like a codger stuck on
kids who took napalm
betel–red teeth cheap cunt
corpses in bloody paddies

baby did God
toss you that clove–studded
Christmas orange
or was it a lesser grenadier

the one who is shelling
out gold stars to mothers
for fiery black
headlines from Iraq

by Laura Delia Quintero Garcia

Crisantemo de vértigo
espino de placer
                             galanadura
deja que ahuyente tus inercias
                e incite tus hábiles combates

tu modo feroz de apoderarte
de todo lo que en mi te pertenece

Jardín de hoguera sapientísima
déjate inflamar por mis ventiscas
y hospeda la absolutez
                                     de mis glaciares.

Vertiginous chrysanthemum
thorn of pleasure
                             prima donna
drive away inertia
awaken your capacity for combat

those fierce measures that empower you
with everything in me that matters

most wise garden of the hearth
set my blizzards on fire
and be the absolute home
                                           of my glaciers.

— translated by Russ Sargent

by Laura Delia Quintero Garcia

Apenas ayer     nostalgia de hojas
ahogado por el polvo
atado bajo el sol
ardiendo sueños
olfateando nubes

Ahora festin de verde tierno
brillante y sobrio     abanderas la calle
barres el viento con tu aroma

Igual que tú
dispongo mi mesa para el fruto.

Scarcely yesterday     leafy nostalgia

buried in the dust
hidden behind the sun
dreams burning
smelling of clouds

today a fresh festival of tender green
bright and content     sets the fashion on the street
your aroma erases the wind

just like you
I set my table for the fruit.

— translated by Russ Sargent