ERIN CONWAY

Sea and sky. That’s all there was in the beginning as the Popol Vuh was told to me. Sea and sky. I can’t believe I’m here. I almost wasn’t. In so many ways, we almost weren’t. Sera and I walk Dusty’s Trail. We pick around fallen limbs shattered on the road. Bark is peeled away from what resembles broken arms and cracked ribs of a shipwreck. The corn plants dry. They will be harvested soon. I stare along a leaf of blended color. One edge is the shade of my own hair. Next to it

Cool morning air washes over me and passes through me. I miss the breeze of the bouncing picop rushed through my nostrils. Lidia’s letter is tucked in the book Sera set on the table. I cannot reach it to puncture, savor nor survey its contents. Sera’s letters all smelling of faded, faraway corn rest atop folded clothes. I kick off the blanket wrapped around me. I hear drops. Drops of water. And crashes. Thunder. And lights. Not lights. Lightning. I forget how man

Thick, chalk smothered air blows around me.  Everything closes in more in the summer.  Humidity.  Goals.  I brace for the lift.  Grit is willing to do and willing something to be done, but in the end, even the strongest muscles in your body are at the mercy of your grip.  There are ways to save your grip.  Farmers know that it is their grip that will save them.  I was raised by a farmer. “Fingers are amazing,” Dad had said. Chunked.  Gnarled.  Folded over.  Stretched out.  I

We can try to tell a story. We can think for years a story will never have a listener. It took fifteen years for this essay to be accepted, and it's still relevant, especially to me. --- **Photo credit--Illustration by Nicole Kharjana --- I sat up straight during the taxi ride through Guatemala City.  I leaned forward onto my rounded backpack, never against the car window as I had before I had mailed the Peace Corps application in the grocery store parking lot.  For months,

I used to love birthdays, especially celebrating others' birthdays, until each of mine disappeared a little more. Numbers of texts or Facebook tags, less. As my years increased, it seemed, I was remembered less. My dad taught me to love elephants , except the reason I love elephants is because their leaders are strong women who remember. My birthday last week reminded me why I love elephants, the women who remembered me were matriarchs. They were not girlfriends, colleag

Spring was here, but I remained too passive. I felt it in my eyes that were tired only from staring at whatever Netflix said was 'for me'. My finger would tap and then my brain would forget. I needed to feel something in a five senses way. A physical book could be a start. The lightness of the pages. The heaviness of them all tied together in story. I searched through 'my list' until I had matched a series, Shadow and Bone, with a book. After I started reading, I reali

On the weekends, my aunt and I walked. October wind blustered but the cotton in my ears held. Only slightly muffled, I heard my aunt’s question. “I remember when you told me that your friend in Guatemala named one of her children after you. Do you know anything about that child?” Maria Candelaria. My weaving teacher. I dropped my head. After COVID, but admittedly before and for much longer, I had not. What had become of this little girl? She would be about ten. Tomorr

Atonement and drought are absent of water. Things that are present with me this Yom Kippur are also connected observing an absence of water. I only fasted one Yom Kippur. It was 2006. I was in Guatemala and my brother was deployed in Iraq. I considered, tried, failed to fast on other Yom Kippurs as a means to feel connected across distance. The novel I am currently writing is about an imbalance in the world's water, our water. The novel I am currently writing believes that

So many of not many No memory Of why Why not Be something else Not a better half But another half Of that which was broken. The hem of a skirt Golden thread undone Wrapped thick Then, thicker Dough rising I cannot reach the vacant moon On such an empty stomach Stars are not fire They are tears The only water The universe still claims. I wanted What men wanted When men wanted Me I gave What men asked for When men asked from Me I chose But not their choices I promised But not t