Light snow, bare branches.
It’s easier now to see
Deep into the woods,
Loss upon loss settling
Under a lattice of ice.
Phillis Levin is the author of six poetry collections, including An Anthology of Rain and Mr. Memory & Other Poems, a finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. She is the editor of The Penguin Book of the Sonnet.
TOLA SYLVAN
And, what’s more, they are painted with tiny small yellow and white dots, which, if you looked closely, invading her intimacy, you might discern to be daffodils, daylilies, daisies, or rose. They are feminine, no matter what. They say: here is the outside of myself, my hardshell exterior, with its wily and yet decipherable messages.
ISABEL CRISTINA LEGARDA
The cemetery had inhabitants, and not just those whose descendants had laid them to rest. Two old men were living on the Ordoñez plot. Next to the abandoned Llora mausoleum, a family of four had pitched their makeshift tent. As more squatters crept in, to whom the administrators of the Cementerio de Manila turned a blind eye.
STEPHEN NARAIN
Well, my brother, we ain’t better than nobody. My mamma told me that. Daddy. But we must acknowledge—by Grace or accident—we found something. Discovered something. Touch something. You certainly did.
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