By YANG JIAN
He was old.
She, too, was old.
Their years, like lightning, slit the heart of the passerby.
They quickly finished eating a chicken:
He, the head, she, the legs.
From outside the window, a warm spring breeze brushed their faces.
Their hearts stirred for once,
Like the firs in the park,
Towering, nondescript.
It would matter precious little
If they were dead, rotten.
Translated by Stephen Haven and Li Yongyi
Yang Jian’s books of poetry include Dusk, Old Bridge, and Remorse.
KRIKOR BELEDIAN
from channel to channel / the lengthening beauty of shadows that float and bow down / and suck at the stones and planks / of the damp, bitter fog / of loneliness, / stone horses let loose their golden neighs / and the waters transform to / stained glass
RAFAEL ALBERTI
Who are you, tell us, who do not remember you / from earth or from heaven? // Your shadow—tell us—is from what space? / What light, say it, has reached / into our realm? // Where do you come from, tell us, / shadow without words, / that we don’t remember you?
BRAD LEITHAUSER
I’m twenty-seven, maybe too old to be / Upended by this, the manifold / Foreignness of it all, the fulfilling / Queer grandeur of it all, // But we each come into ourselves / As each can, in our own / Unmetered time (our own sweet way), / And for me this day’s more thrilling
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