by Yana Lucila Lema (Ecuador : Kichwa)
translated by Margaret Randall

there go the uncontrollable
the rebels
the ones they call violent
when they want to devour our roots
our language
our blood

but what isn’t said today we will say
as prelude to rising up
if the blood we shed is from hunger
for the vacant eyes of women and men

look for us then behind the mountains
in the stars that glitter on the rivers’ waters
or on the cement streets built with our hands

the small birds call us with their song
and that song becomes an eternal shout
eternally at the city gates

by Eduardo Bechara Navratilova (Colombia)
translated by Margaret Randall

Tinder says:
500 kilometers.
The distance between
the mesa
on this side of the hills
and your savannah
cut through
by a river,
this room
replete with paintings
and your garden
full of birds
singing to the morning.

We have always
been separated
by a mountain range
a river’s meanders
and clouds
swirling
in perfect
number.

The thread linking
your belly to mine
also describes
a perfect distance
from the line
of your thighs
the curve
of your cheeks
and the poems
that grow mangos
between my own.

by Eduardo Bechara Navratilova (Colombia)
translated by Margaret Randall

Throughout our lives we die from time to time
and must go on in spite of death.

That slow departure leaves vortexes
in our gut,
steals something of what we have built
from childhood,
and reminds us how fragile the bark is
on any tree born to the world.

We also suffer some births
reminding us
of our first airplane ride,
the first time we scored a goal
or bestowed a kiss,
when someone parted
their own lagoon
or we discover some seeds
scattered in astonishment.

After those deaths and births
the taste of water remains in our mouths.

Which do we savor at the first birth?

Which burns at the final death?

Maria Vazquez Valdez (Mexico)
translated by Margaret Randall

Glints of orange
flutter in the sky,
vigorous drizzle of wings
in a vortex:
they understand the radiance
incrusted in the earth.

Majestic flight
gathering all energy,
singing in a bonfire of wings
among the sacred pines.

They convene in ecstasy
turn mid–flight,
melt into each other,
drink on branches over the water,
a convulsive rain
of animated petals.

Their murmur falls
and rises:
flowers that mate
in velvet silence.

from Geómetra, 2020