By Carlota Vásquez The blank page taunts me, Yet here I am, about to try again For the thirtieth, fortieth, One hundredth time. And now that I’ve begun, I realize That only by recurring to metaphors Can I hope to describe poetry To someone other than a poet. To painters: words…
By Carlota Vásquez I met her in wintertime. At least, it was wintertime back home —my friend Joshua’s Instagram was overflowing with pretty pictures of him and his boyfriend in the snow; smiling, hugging, kissing. Meanwhile, I was standing in front of my grandparents’ house in Reterán, a small town on the outskirts of Cartagena….
