Robin Ragan

The Interpreter

asylum interview in Dilley, Texas 2019

In first person protocol

no omissions or additions

tongue and gums twist a path

saliva like ink to the press

ventriloquist for hire:

I’m the cold judge with a routine spiel

the lead respondent is deemed removable

I’m the nice lawyer asking the cruel questions

how many were there? how many times?

But mostly, I am her, the me that speaks

bloodshot ears, I mouth the horrors.

I see through the tear brimming

almost pick at the burn scars on her knuckles

look down at my notebook

when her eyes fall in shame,

why didn’t you go to the police?

we choke up,

I fake thirst so we both can catch our breath.

You steal a glance as if to plead

make my fear credible

I sneak a delicate nod and hope you read me:

I got you

The gavel drop breaks our bond.

Thankyous and goodbyes

God bless you and keep you safe

Home, I try to be just me again.

I shred the evidence:

pages where I said I was you

in half words, symbols, and scribbles

where my pen opened and closed wounds

fresh and old.

Only her, I can not shake

even after I scrub the stains from my hands.

---

Robin Ragan is a professor of Spanish at Knox College where she teaches translation and interpreting. She is a certified medical and legal interpreter who often works with survivors seeking asylum or other kinds of immigration relief in the United States.

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Derek Dew

Understanding the Arena

Light was let all the way in

Eventually I noticed the bra

Near the cactus in the corner

Of the yellow lawn & then

My gaze rose up the thorns

Until I saw a pair of panties

Hanging from the cactus itself

High sun over the dead car

Blue but rusted at the fenders

As though it were baring its teeth

In the driveway at the end of the porch

Where the knife pa gave me lay

After I had stuck it into the board

Left it vertical then he walked by

Tossed his foot to kick it away

I looked at him drawing his breath

He turned to me & that was all for awhile

Adapting to the Arena

The men were leaning

On the cinderblock wall

Speaking in low tones

To each other with eye contact

While nodding towards ma

Who was walking next to me

About to step into the corner store

But when I saw them see her

I decided to wait outside

So I could hear them talk

Watch them smoke laugh & spit

I tried to finish their sentences

In my head but was unable to

When ma walked out the store

They got quiet looking at her

They saw me & I realized

If I could be wanted like her

I could escape being like them

Overcoming the Arena

When the forty ounce

Was handed to me just enough

Of the green glass peaked

Above the brown paper bag

For a little moonlight to reflect

While one of the boys questioned

Whether or not I would be able

To lift it to my mouth being

Young small skinny as I was

I held the bottle with both hands

I raised its bottom high

I began to tap my fingers

On its side like I was playing

The trumpet & everybody laughed

While malt liquor poured into me

Older girls older boys everybody

I had made them all laugh

But ocean thrashed in front of us

& I was not confident

I was worried

So I appeared ready

---

Derek Thomas Dew is a neurodivergent, non-binary poet. Derek’s debut poetry collection “Riddle Field” received the 2019 Test Site Poetry Prize from the Black Mountain Institute/University of Nevada.

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Raphael Kosek

In the Room with Saint Augustine

Sometimes the spoons are filled with despair

at the breakfast table

and the bowls howl

their one long low note

Did I tell you (after she died)

I never missed my mother?

After she died

Overhear other woman missing their mothers

Do I believe them?

Yes Not really

Maybe

I’m jealous

(The wallpaper weeps)

Sometimes when the night crawls by

Under the moon’s raw blade, the bottle

Grows understandable

Good night

Good girl

(I mean to wake up)

Did I tell you times come

When I hate poetry?

So impractical

Disturbs the psyche

Better to plow a field

But then the trees

Their sway

Their reach

Even their sere cackling

How they lift

To the blazing blue

with its clouds heaving

Believe everything all over again

At the breakfast table

A Calm Madness

“ . . . I sought wisdom . . . in poems and also a certain calm madness.” Adam Zagajewski

Mozart surely felt it and tried to annihilate

that stolid fervor in his Requiem

and the birds churn it when dawn’s pallor

sieves the trees. It’s there when enlightenment

baptizes the confused brow of the seeker.

If you weep at the wood thrush’s song,

you are stung by it. And it simmers in

the horse’s eye, though the breath is soft

with sun and hay. For some it is the blue of far

mountains and the sea’s restless grieving.

Caravaggio found it in the violent

light emboldening human flesh for all

to behold. For such beauty, you have

to be mad. Or it would kill you.

Bluebirds

The air is wet with moist heat on this clouded

late May day.

I’m not sure if it’s welcoming

or not. If I had to say, I think it tastes like grief even

though the birds are going about their business

as usual and my heart still beats. The bluebird house

in the back yard remains empty after

my beloved and I tacitly agreed

to purge the wren’s 6 tiny brown eggs

in her lovingly piled

pyramid of twigs, hoping for the brighter beauties.

I watched his hand clasp the nest

and toss it into the woods. Earlier this week

a child smeared herself with another’s

blood to avoid the gunman’s ire. I think

it is going to rain if it makes its mind up

and there will be no bluebirds

in this house of death.

---

Raphael Kosek is the author of AMERICAN MYTHOLOGY (Brick Road Poetry Press) and two prize-winning chapbooks, HARMLESS ENCOUNTERS (2022) and ROUGH GRACE (2014).

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