This poem from an indigenous Purépecha author celebrates the heroism of a seemingly ordinary woman.

There is a place in the Universe / where the memory of time / is recorded.

The owl is here. / He perches on the wall. And meditates.

Where do you go, Marías, where do you go?

Guest editors Earl Shorris and Sylvia Sasson Shorris introduce WWB's issue of writing from the indigenous languages of the Americas.

The masked man, seeing the other men running, chose to follow them, without realizing that he would frighten them even more.

Forgetting is like leaves. Some fall others are born. They stop being leaves only when the tree stops being a tree. For the next poem in this sequence, click here.

The landscape is effective. We’re calling out the hills.Echoes want untwining. We’re drawing water from fountains.A half-open window. The half-closed sea.The rest just flickers andwe are taking…

They say that the ancient Zapotecs came downfrom the clouds. The center of the sky was their home.

The vampire bats and I were waiting for the coming of the night to play with the stars on the patio of the moon. For the next poem in this sequence, click here.  

Once the bath house has been constructed, a godfather is sought out and a priest is summoned.

K'iche' (Mayan) poet and author, Humberto Ak'abal from Guatemala writes 12 poems of nature, life, loss, and remembrance.

— What are those things that shine in the sky, — I asked my mother. — Bees, she answered Every night since then, my eyes eat honey. For the next poem in this sequence, click here. The…

On Saturday afternoons, I'm the only woman at the Fetishists' Club. Otherwise it's just men.

“As you see, that was how our Creator lived, He who created everything and He who created man. He never walked like men. While he lived on earth, He always kept himself holy. He never sinned despite…

There were many stars in the pool; I asked my father to take them out. He transferred the water drop by drop and put them in my hands. At dawn I wanted to see if he had really taken them out. And it was…

It has been years, many years, since cats learned to look after little girls. If some bothersome spirit comes near, the cats bristle, give a jump, and the evil spirits are gone. For the next poem in this…

Now and thenI walk backwards.It is my way of remembering.If I only walked forward,I could tell youabout forgetting.This last poem in this sequence was originally published in Guchachi 'Reza' 'Iguana…

My own joy in working for Words Without Borders is a chance to discover new voices-the thrill of finding a poet or translator whose music changes the way I view the world, the way I breathe, if only for a moment.

The old man tugged his vest down over his hips. The rattling downstairs continued, it was a disconcerting, urgent sound, and now it was compounded by knocking.

The train moved off and her journey of despair began.

maybe you too sometimes fantasizethat god resembles your most difficult teacherthe one who never gave the highest markone day he invites your parents to schooland who knows what he is telling them thereperhaps…

Or do we all, Baghdad, / belong to the executioner?

An anthologist from Berlin asks me / for poems new or recognized:

Peat bog, fossilized air, loops of an evening sky.

Arcades: steps toward the sun. / Stone crossbeams with figures of griffins and nereids.

I find the trace of your teeth in the foreign town.

From unexpiated sins / poems are born

The sea's color is green. / The white sand is stained with blood.

Uh huh says the streetcar, or it seems to say.