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Dorsía Smith Silva

Puerto Rico as Non-Erasure

By Dorsía Smith Silva Survival occupies us with our blank shopping carts
next to blank shelves. We grow desperate because spaces
are blank. A hurricane that leaves a bitter taste
as stores carry bare wrappers and blank sympathy.
Ryan Jafar Artes

Not Equal to Family (Reduced Down to Me)

By Ryan Jafar Artes If
Mother + Father = Me

But
Mother + Father + Me ≠ Family

Then
Mother + Father - Me = Family
Samia Saliba

historicity

By Samia Saliba golden shovel after karl marx, walter benjamin, richard siken, & zaina alsous

“the tradition of all dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brains of the living”
- karl marx

in american cemeteries the dead overlap, the
hillside ostentatious in the catholic tradition.
Ana Portnoy Brimmer

Sargassum / Sargazo

By Ana Portnoy Brimmer There’s so much to be learned from that which floats A patience
from the Gulf of Mexico to a sea of its name sargassum
drifts hand in hand with itself
Jaz Sufi

ETYMOLOGY OF BORDERS

By Jaz Sufi BORDER, from the Middle English bordure, meaning “the decorative band
surrounding a shield,” a heraldic device intended to identify
possession — this flag flies over that land, & so this land belongs
to…
Dujie Tahat

The Way As Promised Has Mile Markers To Guide Us

By Dujie Tahat Pops bought a ‘78 Pontiac,
a firebird-stamped gold bar
on wheels, spontaneously,
after a conversation with
an aunt’s friend—so it went.
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.
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.
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.
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