Burning The Wound by Giovanni Mangiante

I was standing near the bus stop one Tuesday night on Colonial Avenue. Here in Lima Peru it doesn’t rain as heavy as in other countries, but still a continuous drizzle had been falling for a few hours, covering the roads, the sidewalks, and every single soul outside in the cold that night. Umbrellas are…

Five Poems by Giovanni Mangiante

The world as a rusty playground   It isn’t just the dishwashers or the laundry ladies, the janitors, or the warehouse workers. I’ve seen and met with lawyers that are as well huddling on their beds trying to get warm under thin dirty bed sheets with no money to pay the rent and with no…