MIEDO AL OLVIDO
6 x 9 | 36 pages
Handprinted linocut cover
Caligo Safe-Wash Oil-Based Ink on cream 80 lb cover w/ title card appliqué
Digitally printed interior on cream opaque 70 lb text
Hand sewn in natural twine
Note: Individually printed by hand in small batches, no two covers will be exactly alike. Expect minor variations across the edition. Thank you, readers, for your incredible support of Bloof’s handmade series. Full series subscriptions are sold out, but you can create your own custom bundle with the books that remain!
Limited to 150 numbered copies
BLOOF BOOKS CHAPBOOK SERIES
Volume 4: Issue 5 (2020)
The poems in Miedo al Olvido offer moments from the poet’s early life—depicting family, her home country of Venezuela, and growing up in Ecuador—in a sequence of shimmering remembrances, written against the fear of forgetting. Amid these domestic scenes spark flashes of the fantastic: ghosts at the bus stop, a man who discovers his mother is a bird, a household caught in an endless loop of time, a perpetually fruiting mango tree.
Miedo al Olvido: Poems from an Uprooted Girl is the fifth chapbook in the 2019–2020 series from Bloof Books. Each chapbook in the series is released in a limited edition of at least one hundred numbered copies, followed by a digital release, and eventually in a combination volume called Bound.
Ana Hurtado is a Venezuelan writer who grew up in Ecuador. She earned her MFA at Iowa State University in 2017 and currently teaches rhetoric and creative writing in Universidad San Francisco de Quito. Her work has been published by Strange Horizons, Uncanny Magazine, The Apex Book of World SF: Volume 5, and others.
35 in stock
In Maracaibo, being unlucky translates
to salty. You are salado, brackish, bad luck
swallows you and spits you out like an ocean
wave. It is never done with you. I am
salty. Mama found an iguana under
the kitchen table this morning. While everyone
was out scaring the green monster away, I
sprayed her French perfume on my hand. It smelled
like her during hugs post-dinners—its fragrance lingers
on her plastic-covered couches. Scent particles flew
into a fan, a brushed nickel-finish apparatus,
and out into her bedroom. I held out my hand
in front of the fan, as if it to stop physics. It chopped
off my fingertip. As my relatives clean the blood spots
from my dress—they’re huddled up around me, on their knees
the iguana they chased off earlier is walking
underneath my bed. I’ll drop something at night,
and when the lights are off, feel
its scales through my bandage.