We came in dancing. Landed
moving. Our bodies pressed against borders, north and south, to the limits of
cold and heat. Seeped through and found ourselves on both sides, multiple. We danced
as defense. Danced to new songs. To familiar whispers, to the music we brought
and the music we fed. We came with photos and adrenaline, taped-up boxes and
giant suitcases. America, to me, in 1979 was a pyrotechnic album of bursting
events, and relatives known only by nicknames opened their mouths the way cats
to do sense kin. The archive is in our bodies, in the hormones coursing through
kids, in the indestructability of our storytellers. I learned to trust the
cortisol smell on my people, and the food my abuela always had in her purse. Improvisationally,
we landed. we have felt our way through, we make our way back. (“trust”)
It is such a delight to see new work by American poet José Felipe Alvergue, his fourth full-length collection, en el norte / soy del sur (Oakland CA: Omnidawn Publishing, 2026), a title that follows gist : rift : drift : bloom (Further Other Book Works, 2015), precis (Omnidawn, 2017) and scenery, a lyric (New York NY: Fordham University Press, 2020) [see my review of such here]. With opening untitled poem, en el norte / soy del sur is subtitled “a / postnational / postmemory,” describing itself in its table of contents as structured “in four sonnet essays”: “trust,” “fear,” “anxiety” and “miracles.” As the aforementioned opening poem reads: “I receive signals / throughout my life. / Radio fragments bouncing / around. Like ripples, / little sounds gather. / Shape the music / and shoreline / of a vaster place. Signals / reach out. / Invite me to witness. / Say something / in return. Goodbye, / maybe. I love you. / I’d call this back and forth a worldling.” Alvergue’s opening salvo sets the tone for the collection—elements of witness, radio transmissions, intergenerational trauma and world building—one that works with and against the formal structure of the sonnet, writing the differences amid his sense of origins (south) and current landscapes (north). Or, as he writes within the section “fear”: “Being folded over is / aggressive. Folding oneself is an / internalized aggression that / rehearses something that may in fact / never happen that way. I am often / angry. I feel a lot of loss. I fear / diminishment. I am often angry.”
Throughout the collection, Alvergue provides both straightforward and overlapping texts in multiple directions, akin to works by American poet Susan Howe [see my review of her latest here] as well as full-colour photos from his family archive to speak of and around family stories, including those incomplete, misremembered or purposefully obscured, writing how family memory is kept, held and shared, even amid perspectives or experiences that contradict. He speaks of family story, and how his family’s stories have been shaped, for good and for ill, by American ethics, writing: “And American / ethics, braided as they are to power / and agency, extract from us / witnesses an unwelcome pressure to / will the right thing to being. Instead / we release bundled polymers from / our nerves, reaching and spreading / across relic steps. This desire takes up / the space between, and pushes.”
It’s called inheritance and
it’s called trauma.
Between a generation
stories of monsters span
across gaps like gooey
bridges. The act of
naming moments bonds
generations, locations,
emotions. Through storytelling
I can smell the
musk of a fevered
creation and I can sense the
shrinking distance
between it and my two
sweet warm and loving
grandparents. When
my mother would hold me
in her arms and
retell this history the
vibrations through her
breastbone coded the act
of survival as love
and dusted that sense of
security with brilliant
jewels that release an
internal tension the way
veins inside a piano make
music. (“anxiety”)
Alvergue’s author biography described him as someone who “grew up on the Mexico-US border in South San Diego, and is a proud member of the Salvadoran diaspora,” and through the lyric articulations of en el norte / soy del sur, Alvergue does the heavy lifting of solidifying memory through language, setting stories into print, and offering witness, providing a collection that is as memory itself. From the section “fear,” as he writes: “The / complication for those like me is sense, the / learned instinct that leads to fears expressed / from love like fruit picked from a tree that / grows in the shade of memories, / carefully packed and brought to another / place to plant or feed little bodies with. / We are not powerless. We landed dancing.”


