Tag Archives: Julia Leverone

Cristina Rivera Garza

Cristina Rivera Garza (poet) has published seven books of poetry, including her most recent, La imaginación pública (2016). She is known as a fiction writer as well: her novels Nadie me verá llorar and La muerte me da both were awarded the Premio Internacional Sor Juana in 2011 and 2009, respectively. Nadie me verá llorar also won the Prix Roger-Caillois in 2013. Her writing has been translated into English, French, Italian, Portuguese, Korean, and other languages. She is the director of the Creative Writing in Spanish PhD program at the University of Houston.

 

Julia Leverone (translator) lectures in Spanish and Creative Writing at the University of Texas at Dallas. She has a PhD in comparative literature, and holds positions as the editor of Sakura Review and an assistant editor at Asymptote. Her chapbook of poems, Shouldering, was published in 2016. Julia’s translations appear or are forthcoming in América invertida: A Bilingual Anthology of Emerging Uruguayan Poets, Witness, Modern Poetry in Translation, the American Literary Review, and Boston Review.

 

 

 

 

[beam in the water]

I remember you with polished crossbows in each hand.
Vertical like mist drizzling to the ground. Soaked in force.
Everything smaller around you: midday and the slight tilt of the valley,
that sudden encounter with the springing source of afternoon.
Almoloya de Juárez.
Look, you said, with your eyes on the water. There’s a beam.
You were dreaming appearances. You described them.
From the other side of the railing the carp hid among the algae.
On the bottom lightly trembling, tarnished coins of old wishes blinked.
There were willow leaves scoring the sacred surface like ships.
I fixed upon it. I saw it. I caught it.
A refraction of light.
The line of a strand of hair over mystery’s cranium.
The limit that divides the right side from the left.
I was eleven and protected by you,
I was safe from being unloved.

 

19
[raya en el agua]

Te recuerdo con ballestas pulidas en las manos.
Vertical como la llovizna sobre la tierra. Empapada de fuerza.
Todo pequeño a tu alrededor: el mediodía y la leve inclinación del valle
este súbito encuentro con el manantial de la tarde.
Almoloya de Juárez.
Mira, dijiste, con los ojos sobre el agua. Hay una raya.
Soñabas con la aparición. La anunciabas.
Del otro lado del barandal las carpas se escondían entre las algas.
En el fondo apenas trémulo tintineaban las monedas oxidadas de viejos deseos.
Había hojas de sauce surcando el líquido sagrado como barcas.
Puse atención. La vi. La atrapé.
Una refracción de luz.
La línea de un cabello sobre el cráneo del misterio.
El límite que divide el lado derecho del izquierdo.
Tenía once años y protegida por ti
estuve a salvo de no ser amada.