Introduction: Aracelis Girmay

A field of mines exploding. Jacaranda, I call you jacaranda, to be seen more clearly. And was it sky, in fact, but you're a river now, and bird. Feathered, featherless & defiant, godded, Aracelis Girmay's poems come busted piano, come time, come free. My enemies are not hungry, she writes, you, funeral of sails, I admit you. My heart, its bird, belongs to the field now. Pine blade, a fleck of viscous pomegranate. The land will hum, its sturdy, and its faithful was stole away, & rid of all into the cold, cold ocean. Prodding alien in the ducky afternoon, summer of wasps, of tortillas. Santa Ana of cross-guards, tomato pickers was stole away, ripe conjugationer of water and sun. When I say field, I say your thousand, thousand names: morning, heart, father. Santa Ana of mothers, radiators, trains--again all that green when I say field. Aquariums of grains & clocks & schoolchildren, Aracelis Girmay's poems make a place for you while the radio calls out. Or it is not Kornei, and it is not Sudan, & her, if we meet again, I swear to outlast slaughter. The flag of Palestine in Palestine, pine blade, a fleck of the word most sadness. The land will hum. Aracelis Girmay