Jordan Landsman

Every day when I get home from work I spend money I don’t have on useless books. Every day I come home from downtown drunk. History remembers few men who, in this way, have reached the age of eighty. I look at the roof’s metallic membranes sparkling under the moon; I hear the long meows of cats gathered on the terraces. I scream beneath the neighborhood wind, facing the darkness and passing hours, and I wonder why men only think about things that torment us.

Translated from the Spanish Sitting on the patio he takes the last puff of a cigarette and, in his head, bets against himself: if the butt makes it over the wall he’ll live to a hundred, if not, nada. He launches the butt with two fingers; it flies four inches above the wall. He doesn’t get up; by now, the hose must have already expelled all the hot water it had inside and be running cool, ready to douse the plants. Notes: Read the translator's note by Jordan Landsman.

“Ami Police”: A Story “An impressive row of necklaces dangled from her neck, and in terror I noticed, shining like diamonds, roughly sewn onto tiny lockets along each chain, dozens of small eyes crowned with minuscule mirror shards.” Agreeing to Our Harm We ignore at our peril the rage that animates Trump voters and threatens Biden’s chances this fall.