Yaccaira
Salvatierra @ The Acentos Review
Here
is an excerpt from “Luciérnaga:”
Luciérnaga,
firefly, I didn’t believe you existed,
but
there you were dancing in your radiance
along
a damp Mexican path far from the city’s glow.
You
were followed by a few others
flickering
in and in like tips of fire;
you
took them along the man-made trail
walled
with dry bush and cacti;
you
led them into an opening
among
the thorned-arms of the maguey
as
a deepening purple sky
slowly
swallowed dawn’s dim light.
I
traveled behind you as far as I could,
but
that was the last I saw of you.
*
Ruben Quesada @ Ostrich
A few weeks ago in an interview
moderated by Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize winner, Sheryl Luna, Latino Poetry Now
featured poet, Carmen Giménez-Smith expressed her enthusiasm for the diversity
of Latino/a writers recently being published and for the main actors—journals,
magazines, small presses—spearheading these publishing efforts. Among them is
Nayelly Barrio’s Ostrich Review.
Issue two of Ostrich, features a poem by Letras
Latinas-featured poet Ruben Quesada. Back in
June of last year I had the opportunity to profile Ruben
Quesada and his debut collection Next Extinct Mammal (Greenhouse Review
Press, 2011), of which D.A. Powell writes: “Like
Whitman, Quesada is a poet of motion—journeying to the center of the US… toward
“that seam in space” where dream and experience intersect.” His poem “On Telos” is currently featured
at Ostrich.
*
David Campos @ Boxcar Poetry
Review
Andrés Montoya Poetry Prize finalist, David Campos was the
co-hosted the literary radio show Pakatelas on KFCF
88.1 FM Fresno from 2009-2011. And has his poems featured at The
American Poetry Review, The Packinghouse Review, Connotation Press, Verdad, In
The Grove, and The San Joaquin Review. His latest poem
“After Hearing of My Father’s Passing” is a moving elegy masterfully interwoven
with images of loss and redemption and is currently featured at the Boxcar Poetry Review:
I remember the
mountains, the echo of shotgun blasts
herding quails
into the sky. Father, I remember hearing you
say how easier
it would be to bury a father than a son.
This afternoon
it is raining like that day I had no desire
to gut the deer
hanging from the tree,
to carry the
limp body over the hills,
to have its
blood drip on my clothes
and dry in
between my fingers.
I have no
desire to lower your casket,
your body, into
the ground, and watch it sway
before the hard
wood of the coffin meets the soft earth.
I still
remember the man who kept twenty paces ahead of me
up those
mountains, who every now and then looked back
to make sure I
was still there.
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