Mary Maxfield My mother taught me silence like a secret handshake, more muscle memory than vow. When asked about her now, a hush entangles fingers, slaps, knocks fists. I say everything but this. She...
Rukan Saif The last time I saw my father this close to God was when the doctors cut open his chest and took his heart into their palms and named it lost. So when he declines the call to prayer for...
Gawad Elakkad Translated from the Arabic by Hazem Jamjoum & lisa minerva luxx Your fingers plunge into my palm swaying like gazelles in the forest of the mind I dream of them a...
Omar Khoury I pressed my nose upon my mother’s sleeve, the incense nestled within it, both welcoming and overwhelming. Her hair whips thin, their curls like cresting waves crashing upon themselves....
Yahia Lababidi Where were you during the apocalypse on the other side of the world? Did you pause to observe a moment of silence? Did the extermination of the other half interrupt your sleep?...
Mohammed Abu Lebda One sets traps for doves, Aged at the thresholds of emptiness, Or bakes time slowly on a flame, For patience to ripen within. Amidst war’s chaos, Love transforms into a...
Fatihah Quadri When a country hates another country, the children suffer everyday from the sun. A house falls and the dream shatters to the ground. The first thing my mother taught me about...
Raya Tuffaha And what if I damn you? If I write the explosion in stageable italics, if I poeticize and profit-size and donate and educate, what if I learn your language and boundaries, then what?...
Mandy Shunnarah Nobody ever asks who baked the bread, coaxed the yeast & flour with alchemy, or beckoned its rise with knuckles & patience. Nobody asks who smoked the fish, much...
