By Raena Shirali
solo, skirting the rim of our smolder, our ruin,
all lotus bud, bell-beat & drum-song, those many hands &the severed heads they hold, masc-demonic,
system says we’re not in charge of much elsebut this. system’s [planter’s raj] & the damn tea. the Brits sell us, Lipton sells us, Tata sells us. when are we permitted to unload?
in the living room again, i cannot conjureeven the space i inhabit. rain for several
reeking of moss & blossom & on the streeti call home, i cannot be sure if iexist. my thighs press on one another
By Éireann Lorsung
I need to try a syntax of each in placeof accounting: each-syntax as language within reach of one’s own body,
In rubber rafts on the open field of the Adriatic, open field of the Mediterranean. In a diesel-powered ship setting out from Hamburg in 1939.
When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things I CORINTHIANS 13:11 Redaction? No, monument: a [...]
By John Freeman
Let us remember liberty was not popular,six years it took Laboulaye to convinceBartholdi a gigantic statue was what New York harbor needed. Elevenyears later
By Sylvie Baumgartel
Pink is the Tuscan sunset. PinkAre the Vietnamese monk patesBobbing under Piero’s True Cross.Pink is plenty, pink is joy.
Women used to wean their babiesBy painting their breasts black.Hurricane clouds are black.The Earth is weaning us.