By Leila Chatti
If you had asked me, thirteen, what I wantedto be one day, I wouldn’t have said it.
Hidden in a dim stall as the muezzin calledall worshipers to prayer, I touched privatelythe indelible stain.
Christmas, flew home packaged like a gift. Beneath my jeans a childlike padding. Came to adore the wee god, his dolorous mother.
The summer after, a stormsplit the sky over Hergla and I wanted to be in it.
By Mai Der Vang
Hmong people say one’s spirit can run off,Go into hiding underground.
Only the physical stays behind.
By Amy Woolard
I was asked to show up with a side dish. I madeA slaw of my longing. I had to keep it crisp. Nothing goes
Bad in a backyard, if you catch my drift. In aBackyard everything is available like a catalog
The peonies are popping! A fist that is also a kettle that is alsoA pact petals made with whatever cabal of bees decides to stick
Around. Let’s all us shake on it. Ah, these lungs of mine the perfectEmergency orange of extension cord coil. All my breathing is
By Kaveh Akbar
My reward for waking: close wallsand limestone dust, spitevaporating from my tongue. First
I count and recountmy toes, throw out grainfor the carp, snatch a femur
Chambers fall to splinter gravel.Leaf grows from my throat.
Walls forsake the crumpled groundIt is meant to hold up.
To continue reading, please login or subscribe.
I press my hand to your sleep.
Then I find your spent head under smallwhirling tresses
having digested the clatterof car horns, children
bustling into sweet shops.