Hope is a sad theme that we carry
in a black river inside.
I know this river.
It pulses in my wrists, throbs in a vein
on the side of my neck, tugs me
toward another day, wakes me to pee,
its current warm then cold, full of open-eyed fish.
Dammed at points, it pools then rushes
through rocky outcrops,
whitewater I’m afraid to jump into,
black river that joins me to a sea of others.

* * *

Hope is a flower in the form
of a cauliflower chewed by distant camels.
Food for the desert striders bearing our loads
on shifting sands through gritty winds,
carrying what they need within.

* * *

Hope is an intimate resentment
when people bleed. It’s what his children
are left without — whiskered kisses,
strong shoulder, a perch.

The lines in italics are my own imperfect translations from Concierto de esperanza para la mano izquierda by Dominican poet Pedro Mir.

Sally Kuzma lives, works, and writes in Milwaukee, and recently spent two years in the Dominican Republic. She is grateful to friends there who introduced her to the work of Pedro Mir, bringing his words to life through their own stories and experiences.