I had the privilege of introducing Gale Nelson’s poetry back in Issue 026
; now, as I introduce Gale Nelson for Issue 132, I’ve succumbed to nostalgia. I imagine the last nearly three years as bookended plates: Nelson’s homophonic translations at the beginning, the selection offered here at the end. In this metaphor, these plates are seismic, not photographic: they shift and subduct, a mantle formed around experiences so magmal that I cannot quite provide any details save that the years have passed. Nelson’s poetry reminds me that I cannot neatly separate beginning, middle, or end. Every period is a fault-line, every stanza a ring of fire.