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The photo portraits express the unguarded essence of each author.

You’re too far from where I sit to admire your finery up close.

Theirs was a free fall that went on and on. If it’s time to fall, let’s fall.

In hushed awe they talk of things to come, a golden time of flowering.

He loves me. That’s half enough: he’s the only man around.

Some night soon you’ll haul yourself out from far beneath this life.

She’ll grow into a beauty, but she needn’t contend with that yet.

“You look like you’re about to fall over,” he says. “Are you all right?”

There’s nowhere he can kiss where she hasn’t been kissed by the sun.

My brush an M-16, thirty-round clips for tubes of paint, all of them red.

Tell her I put poison in the pot and I intend to watch her drink it.

Marianne Boruch

The walls pull apart like a troubled couple, finally deciding to hold.

Even the busiest of businessmen are out for the count, paying the price.

A child no bigger than small change calls from her window j’ai faim.

They plant whispers where shouts incinerate into hisses.

At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.

Out there, my father captains a boat tour below the Cliffs of Moher

I don’t know if I’ve written anything without changing the details.

Why is the sun such a bad companion to the desert traveler?

You’ve gathered more knowledge than you’d need for nine lives.

All roads lead to Rome, but all trails take you to Oklahoma.

Fumbling among the constellations, I believed my throat would burst.

Gail Godwin

I feel as if I have been struck from the book of the living.

The sloshed grownups had little to say to me. I loved it that I was alien.

It has its life, returning always to the ocean. It doesn’t care.

When I walked in, the kids applauded. They were like, “The poet’s back!”

What right does an American mutt like me have to depict in fiction the lives of a Salvadoran family?