I was born in a small city in Guatemala, whose cobblestone streets and colorful colonial architecture have long housed a healthy community of American ex-pats. Growing up there, Spanish and English came to me like twins: chronologically, one was handed to me before the other . . .

A year ago, I wrote in the margins of a poem of mine, “IDEA: Could send out as letterpressed cards . . . recipients can begin to (&, eventually,) assemble the poem whole.” It was winter and Jenny Odell’s How to Do Nothing was still settling in me from the summer before. I was growing more . . .

I grew up on a small farm in West Townsend, Massachusetts, northeast of the Worcester Hills, at the border of southern New Hampshire. Its house and barns were built in 1800, and thirty years later, as the first stirrings of the Industrial Revolution whispered through, my family erected a cooperage there among the pastures and apple trees, a small clapboard outbuilding . . .

Last night I went to bed earlier than usual. I’d avoided coffee all day so that sleep might come. Yet after half an hour of turning from side to side, the same unworthy temptation returned. To ingest something I knew would poison my soul—still, I could not restrain myself. My hand drifted back . . .

I still have my first book in English, A Picture Dictionary for Children by Garnette Watters and S. A. Courtis, given to me by Mrs. Woodward, a Block Parent volunteer who lived several blocks from our home on Norfolk Street. Though I wasn’t part of the program, Mrs. Woodward had approached . . .

In its fifty years AGNI has worked to “bring our readers into the living moment, not as tourists, but as engaged participants.” As we expressed in Against Silence: A Collective Statement toward Peace, we believe that all who bear witness to the ongoing violence in Gaza and the . . .