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By Linda Hogan
This is the word that is always bleeding.
You didn't think this
until you country changes and when it thunders
you search your own body
By Zeina Hashem Beck
This entry is in video format.
By Sholeh Wolpé
Last night a sparrow flew into my house,
crashed against the skylight and died:
I want to write a love song.
By Dunya Mikhail
after a thousand and one nights,
someone will talk to someone else.
Markets will open
for regular customers.
By Amal Al-Jubouri
—My solitude, to which I always returned
City that kept my secret religion in her libraries
I came back to rest my head on her shoulder
and with just one look, she saw how tired I was
By Zeina Azzam
On our last day in Beirut
with my ten years packed in a suitcase,
my best friend asked for a keepsake.
I found a little tin box
By Fatimah Asghar
am I not your baby?
brown & not allowed
my own language?
my teeth pulled
By Craig Santos Perez
kaikainaliʻi wakes from her late afternoon nap
and reaches for nālani with small open hands—
count how many papuan children
still reach for their disappeared parents—
By Rachel Eliza Griffiths
I pick you up
& you are a child made of longing
clasped to my neck. Iridescent,
lovely, your inestimable tantrums,
By Hari Alluri
the tea in her glass. It glows the brocade.
Her grandmother picked that tea
on a mountain—a mountain in a war
whose shores were her bed. Steeping, the petals