On Rivers • Curated by Patrycja Humienik

There is a river, lost or hidden, that is impossible to pass six days each week.

I started asking rivers to feed me as a child—literally, with flesh from fish, then figuratively, with flashes of comfort.

The year I meet granpa my hands mimic clouds. / Charybdis turning turpid pools / beneath his globes— vision I have awaited.

A farmer with a wolf, a goat and a cabbage must cross a river by boat.

As I look out upon a landscape now heavily shaped by American colonialism, I know another world is possible.

My mother and grandmother were born in ‘the land of the lake,’ or La Comarca de la Laguna, a cradle of fertile land between the Sierra Madre mountain ranges in the northern Mexican desert

The new year begins in winter white embroidery— / trumpeter swans and needle-slim herons piercing / drainage ditches.

In this moment that has come to happen / in other moments, the notes / of birds nestled in my asking.