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Ruth Irupé Sanabria

Distance

By Ruth Irupé Sanabria My grandfather asked me: could I remember
him, the park, the birds, the bread?
I’ll be dying soon, he said.
Alan King

The Journey

By Alan King The diner's nearly empty
when you both arrive - except for
the six or so other patrons and
a waitress who calls everyone "Hun".
Rajiv Mohabir

Outcry

By Rajiv Mohabir A twist of cotton
daubed in oil
catches flame, an echo
Purvi Shah

Saraswati praises your name even when you have no choice

By Purvi Shah You had a name no one
could hold between their
teeth. So they pronounced
Sylvia Beato

a good woman would never

By Sylvia Beato for years you told no one
how you cried yourself to sleep
after the doctor held your hand

Esther Lin

Spratly and Paracel

By Esther Lin After learning his appointment was canceled
and his senior bus won’t come for another two
hours my father calls from his waiting room
Lauren Camp

Pause Hawk Cloud Enter

By Lauren Camp The soup cooks for an hour while vultures and buzzards pluck the market.
My father wipes his forehead with a white cloth.

Once, each day began with khubz and samoon
Wo Chan

my mother watches her mother’s funeral footage again

By Wo Chan She closed the doors
and then the blinds
and then her face, midday.
Purvi Shah

Shooting for the Sky

By Purvi Shah Under sky massaged by sun, from a comfortable chair, I watch
the rain stroke a myrtle tree. Naked
rain, my father says. Naked,
Keno Evol

on meeting a brother for the first time

By Keno Evol the night i was to meet my brother for the first time in 23 years he ain’t show / absence is not what comes up from that memory / more it was the dusk in September / how fog can hide a growl
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