She weaves a basket from threads of rain then hangs it at the porch. Inside the basket he lays her baby, born from the womb of dusk. When nights thirst for light the baby in the basket glows: That basket …

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Each single day, my dad collects his beads of sweat in a bottle and stashes it in the fridge. When my temperature is so high, My dad will pour his well-chilled sweat into a glass, for me to drink. Glug. …

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Before the dawn the old man leaves his nightly sleep, and slips into a giant stone in his front lawn. Inside the stone he finds a clear and bluish chunk: the heart of rain, well-aged, nurtured by time. By Joko …

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Rain grows on my head, rain that refreshes time. It sprinkles tiny drops. It trickles tiny ticks, with tiny thunderbolts. The rain from my childhood. By Joko Pinurbo translated, from the Bahasa, by Wawan Eko Yulianto   Wawan Eko Yulianto …

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Allow the thirsty rain to swallow brimming tears that simmer in your cup. By Joko Pinurbo translated, from the Bahasa, by Wawan Eko Yulianto   Wawan Eko Yulianto is a graduate student in the Program in Comparative Literature and Cultural …

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