I love you all even more in exile

She stared at me in horror before hurrying off as fast as she could.

Why didn’t you let the old man go, dude?

I hated this image that you invented: me, running, happy, slow motion, as if it were easy to call you Mama, Mommy, Mom so suddenly.

Isn’t it strange (the letter said to me), in Spanish there’s no word for what I am.

It all began by chance, when Arcadio heard the song “Melancholy” by the Orquestra Zodiac.

We searched for the words. We sipped our tea / looking down the bitter well of the past . . .

These songs to Mother Earth in a major key / are whispers that come from distant forests

We are life, this way

Renowned journalist Alfredo Molano interviews one of the founders of the FARC.

The writers here capture the past and present of a country remaking itself and its history.

The old story is changing.

Respect, I now understood, was nothing more than the fear of his reaction.

Wouldn't you pay to speak to your house?

A photo essay of mothers of the disappeared.

When I left Colombia, mothers still made sure their daughters’ knees weren’t showing; now nothing is left to the imagination.

Gabo saw a shattered landscape, aged, forgotten by its people.

The appeal of the Queer Issue is in seeing that great ambition writ small, in discovering the swarm of details and experience that cohere into the big picture of world writing.