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Editor's Note/Nota del Editor: This poem was written in English by a poet who writes in both Spanish and English, and translated into Spanish by another poet who speaks both Spanish and English. Este poema fue escrito en inglés por un poeta que escribe en español e inglés, y se tradujo al español por otro poeta que habla español e inglés.

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The Harrowing

The painful stigmata did not let me drive for long.
I asked Adam to take my place
while I tasted the sights of the barren country.

A bird made of bone, solemn and dead,
flew by
the impatient red skies,
reaching into the scorching sun
and burning.

I poked my face out the window.
The winds of sin
whispered in my ear,
melting thus the skin of my face:
“The dead don’t come back…
never come back…”

The country lingers on
as I listen to its winds one last time.
After three days of driving,
I resurrect.

Desgarrador

El doloroso estigma no me permitió conducir.
Le pedí a Adán que tomara mi lugar para yo poder catar la vista de un campo estéril.

Un ave de hueso, solemne y muerta, pasó volando
por los impacientes cielos rojos hacia un sol abrasador
que la consumió.

Saqué la cara por la ventana.
Vientos pecaminosos
susurraron en mi oído,
y se derritió la piel de mi rostro.

«Los muertos no retornan…
nunca retornan…»

El campo permanece
mientras escucho los vientos por última vez.
Después de conducir tres días, resucito.



Gabriel Ascencio is a Mexican student and writer. He mostly focuses on texts written in Spanish, which can be found at Colectivo Letras & Poesía under his former pseudonym "Dr. Asenjo," and at Revista Extrañas Noches and Letralia.
Current Issue
12 May 2025

You saw her for the first time at your front door, like she wanted to sell you something or convert you. She had light hair and dark eyes, and she was wearing fatigues, which was the only way you knew that your panicked prayers of the last few minutes had not come true. “Don’t freak out,” she said. “I’m you. From—uh, let’s just say from the future. Can I come inside?”
Time will not return to you as it was.
The verdant hills they whispered of this man so apt to sin / chimney smoke was pure as mountain snow compared to him.
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