Sasha Reiter was born in New York City in 1996. He grew up in the Bronx, where as the son of an Argentinian father and a Peruvian mother, he experienced firsthand the metaphorical otherness of being both Latino and Jewish. He attended Public School and received his B.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from Binghamton University. He spent a semester in London studying English history and culture. This is his first book and he is currently working on his second collection of poetry. He intends to pursue a Masters in English with a specialization in Creative Writing.
To My Missing Wife
Sometimes I see you Teetering over the expired garden. I watch you drive away the weeds, As though they were vectors through which [to forget you.
Gloom rotted plums and carrots Flood with color as your fingers Slide through corroded leaves, Personifying them with amity. I call to you and you turn. Your face is absent but ridden with guilt. The leaves turn grey, The frail vegetation embossed with animosity.
Close your eyes, dear. And your eyelids drop.
A mi esposa desaparecida
A veces te veo tambaleándote por sobre el jardín marchito. Te miro ahuyentar las malas hierbas, como si fueran vectores a través de los cuales [olvidarte.
Ciruelas y zanahorias podridas de melancolía se inundan de color mientras tus dedos se deslizan sobre hojas corroídas, personificándolas con amistad. Te llamo y tú te das vuelta. Tu rostro está ausente pero agobiado por la culpa. Las hojas se tornan grises, la frágil vegetación adornada de animosidad.
Cierra los ojos, querida. Y caen tus párpados.
(Traducido por Isaac Goldemberg)