One day, our ashes will scatter—                                           it doesn’t matter when. Now the sun finds our innermost hearts,                                           fills us with oblivion intense as the forest, winter and sea.

Edith Södergran, excerpt of “Animalistic Hymn”, trans. by Brooklyn Copeland, for Poetry Magazine

Read the translator’s note here.

While on the train, folks will look around like they just saw a ghost and ask what smells like it is burning and I know they will mean me Which translates to me being the one with the dead dog Which means they will know I am the one who did not listen to her mother Who plays with ghosts and doesn’t expect a fire or man to burn my house down

Ashley August, from “Superstition,” published in Poetry

I know I’m American because when I walk into a room something dies. / Metaphors about death are for poets who think ghosts care about sound. / When I die, I promise to haunt you forever. / One day, I’ll write about the flowers like we own them.

Noor Hindi, from “Fuck Your Lecture on Craft, My People Are Dying,” published in Poetry

I know red and yellow, the other colors,— but the sea, det granna granna havet, that’s most dangerous                                                                                        to look at. What name is there for the color that arouses this thirst, which says, the saga can happen, even to you—

Edith Södergran, excerpt of “Strange Sea”, trans. by Averill Curdy, for Poetry Magazine

Read the translator’s note here.