Skip to Content
Search Results
Jonny Teklit

Winter Solstice

By Jonny Teklit Today, the rain comes down in icy fangs. Tomorrow, the same. Nothing here escapes the physics of American violence, not even the weather.
Gauri Awasthi

Back Home

By Gauri Awasthi my friend is dying of an invisible darkness
it’s either depression or loneliness or plain facts:
a) Her cancer-smitten grandpa wants her to marry
b) We think she’s queer, but she can’t be sure
c) She has only two reasons to live and one of them
happens to be me.
Noʻu Revilla

For Gaza

By Noʻu Revilla We drink this and share the same taste with you.
We mixed the kava in the parking lot, face-to-face with you.

What becomes of children who drink war instead of water?
The rubble, a chronic obituary. I will never waste a name with you.
Ladan Osman

Silhouette

By Ladan Osman I enter: carpet, curtains,
large, framed pictures of robed white men,
a glassy glare over a forehead, below the voice box,
students in bland shades.
I don’t belong, the luxury of thinking,
the wealth of talking about thought,
privilege of ease among important people.
féi hernandez

Eohippus

By féi hernandez Simultaneously I am
alone and crowded, this…
the pulsing wound of being extinct,

whole
enough for a morning forage,
yet scant for the onlookers

of lineage,
of nation,
myths in the mulberry tree.
Hazem Fahmy

The Committed

By Hazem Fahmy When I say “a Free Palestine in our lifetime” I mean it
is your moral duty to believe the last shekel has already been printed,
its destiny a glass frame in a museum next to a dollar,
Aliah Lavonne Tigh

Body Under Another’s Tradition

By Aliah Lavonne Tigh Everyone in Anatomy pairs up,
receives a small baby pig.
The scalpel shines like water or a mirror—if you look, you see
yourself: gloved hand pushing a blade to open
the other animal’s chest. Someone drops
a knife, shouts,
Clean it up. This is how we learn to
dissect a body.
Mandy Shunnarah

ode to the hare

By Mandy Shunnarah We might have told them, if they’d asked,
the poppies wouldn’t make it to their melancholy
island, no matter how swift their sails snapped
across the sea. Then again, we love our land more
than they love theirs; we long to return, not flee.
That’s why you don’t see us boarding clippers
to claim to ground not ours. With our bountiful
fertile crescent, who needs more plenty?
Kat Abdallah

Performativity

By Kat Abdallah My teachers ask me
after seven months of genocide
if I’m holding up alright.
Issam Zineh

Form & Occasion

By Issam Zineh The grammarians are up
in arms, and the war over
the semicolon has been reignited.

Today, the legislator notes his preference
for certain kinds of killers. Those,
one might say, with a European sensibility.
Page 1 of 14 pages