Pablo Otavalo is from Cuenca, Ecuador but now lives and writes in Chicago. A recipient of the 2013 & 2014 Illinois Emerging Poet prize, his is work has appeared or been featured by Rhino, Jet Fuel Review, Structo Magazine, Ninth Letter, and Tupelo Press. He's an avid chess player and there are many things we have not lost.

Pablo Otavalo


Do you remember the children we never had. The tawny boy, the farsighted girl: you wanted to name her Salome, I wanted to name him Jalisco. Turn. Counter turn. Stand. You bought them knitted gloves, hats, from small Andean markets: little hooded jumpers, pale yellow tans and browns. You went from stall to stall seeking softer strands. We held their names like round river stones: turn, counter turn, stand. In a winter madness, I walked down side streets with their little garments like embers in my hands. Clung to them, then gave them away to children I saw, afraid they were our children, growing cold. But they were not our children for we had no children, so the only thing I gave away was the hope you had in us.

Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published monthly by Glass Poetry Press.
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