By Miranda Featherstone, Illustrations by Nazila Jamalifard
In July 2021, five weeks after my mother died, my husband dropped me off at the emergency room of the small hospital in the Massachusetts town where my father now lived alone.
By Leah Naomi Green
Of course they sing—/ we have given them / no other verb.
By Claire Boyles, Illustrations by Dani Choi
Ruth knew she was pregnant, but they’d driven the hundred miles from Gabbs to Tonopah anyway, for confirmation, she guessed, or for the change of scenery—though everywhere she looked there was desert and mountains, more desert, more mountains.
By Jane Wong
How long I’ve dreamt of you, teenaged and long-legged, lying on our porch, your mud-speckled sandals kicked off to the side, watching a tree slowly split
My dream daughter is chopping onions. She has been chopping for hours, slipping off the skin like tea-colored lingerie, slicing them thinly like the rings of some beloved planet.
By Layla Benitez-James
Tell me you’re that somebodywho gets pregnant after living one month in an orphanage. Tell me you’re the one who has your baby a year later
Apples belong to the genus Malus. I stand with my hips pressing into the sink’s marble,rinsing and twisting these sandy, gunmetal stems out of the fat fruit
By Michael Canyon Meyer, Photography by George Etheredge
A New American Dream Stirs on a Georgia Homestead
By Valencia Robin
why she had six children, your mother’s mother who liked math and science,
By Jill Bialosky
When he was small,I rented a little studio in a building on Ninety-Fifth Street so I could have a room of my own to write. The studio was the size of a bathroom.