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Gowri Koneswaran

A Message of the Emergency Broadcasting System

By Gowri Koneswaran this is a message of the emergency broadcasting system
this is a war on terror

this is a message of the emergency broadcasting system
this is a war of terror

hello my name is Tamil
a minority in america
the second largest ethnic group
in sri lanka
Jenny Xie

Lineage

By Jenny Xie One of the sent-down rusticated youth

Xia xiang: shuttled to the villages to work a steamed pot of land

Her austere fatigues and chatty pigtails
Rasha Abdulhadi

Picking up Rocks

By Rasha Abdulhadi daughter of a palestinian that i am,
when i see a bloc of young people holding the street
it seems i was born with a rock in my hand
against a line of police in battle gear—
and i’ve found the world expects that’s who i am.
Majda Gama

Sexton Nights

By Majda Gama I wanted to be Her Kind, to go out a hennaed hand-
maiden, sneak across the rooftops of Jeddah dome-by-dome,
until I reached the coastline of the eternal bride.
Evie Shockley

philosophically immune

By Evie Shockley can i deduce the nature of humanity from the relationship of american and multinational pharmaceutical corporations to african women with hiv?
Tanya Paperny

Prababushka

By Tanya Paperny click on a live stream
of a memorial event
to commemorate victims
of Soviet terror
Mai Der Vang

Final Dispatch from Laos

By Mai Der Vang Concerning our hollow breasts,
Lice factions multiplying in our hair.

Concerning our unused stomachs,
Molars waiting to chew, taste buds
Kim Marshall

Spring

By Kim Marshall We rush toward change, ask:
how much
do you love me?
Terisa Siagatonu

The Day After American Samoa Is Under Water

By Terisa Siagatonu The evening news helicopters compete for the best camera angle
above the water, fighting to find anything worthy of coverage.

A floating high chief. A baby’s arm flattened by a coconut tree. Anything.
Even the Titanic was enormous enough to leave remnants of itself
Katherine E. Young

Mo(u)rning Poem

By Katherine E. Young This is the poem meant for this mo(u)rning,
now the winds have died down,
the dogwood’s unclenched its frightened fists,
and the morning’s calling
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