Nani by Attiya Khan

Pakistan is always a phone call with static 
Cutting out in the middle because I only know the language 
And not the land where my grandfather 
Built a stone house for my Nani  
With purple walls. Purple was her favorite color; 
I know that not because she ever told me but because 
Every sweater she ever knitted me was a royal violet and 
That was the best she could do in a place where women couldn't love things without evil eyes boring into their skulls 

In the foyer there is a large metal grate 
That looks up to the sky like sliced skin.  
There is a drain in the floor for 
Laundry water and not bodies 
But in the end there is little difference between detergent and blood. 

When I look at my Nani's picture and see her consumed by a maroon wedding veil  
I am supposed to cry because she was beautiful and  
Not because she was twelve. 
I am supposed to see the matriarch of our clan and 
Not wish she had the freedom to take our births back 
Because no one ever asked her if  
She wanted to have eleven kids.   

She loved boiled eggs and rice with milk and sugar. 
I remember teaching her how to use a microwave and say "no English".  
I remember her teaching me Urdu even though I was raised far away from her  
House with purple walls 
Because two languages was the closest I could ever come to understanding  
What she couldn't say in either one. 

I loved her so much  
I was relieved when she died. 
She lived a long life- 
I do not know if it was a good one. 

By the end, death was a mercy. 
I couldn't hear to see her in pain any longer; 
Eighty years of belonging to everyone  
But herself. 

Impression d’un coucher de soleil en été by Ale Morales

Réserve Ponce Inlet

pays de conquistadors
tes beaux nuages teints

d’hyacinthe, puis d’or

des blancs d’œufs en coton

brouillés contre un ciel
jaune
qui sans fin saigne
d’une plaie maternelle
dont les rayons déterminés
s’étirent jusqu’aux limites du cadre
Ô grand Apollon ! Vous vous couchez dans ce flaque de pleurs, annoncez l’entrée au plan de votre
sœur, la cruelle chasseresse qui enlève les couleurs de cet abîme, le blanchit, le noircit. Combien
de matelots voguai par ces eaux baignées de la lumière pâlissante de notre phare, rouge comme le
sang des esclaves qui le bâtirent ? Combien d’enfants se traînèrent les pieds sur le sable qui efface
ses premiers pas, sur la blancheur qui reflète votre lueur éblouissante ?

Un
seul palmier
garde son verdeur
nie l’achromaticité
autour
de lui
tout seul
il bâille
se fane
se couche

Sous
ce belvédère
je devins témoin
au plan qui contient
la mort des dieux
la mort de la vie
la mort des émotions
tout enregistré par mes yeux mouillés
noyés par un écrasant crépuscule

---

Translation as a Prose Piece

Ponce
Inlet Preserve, home of conquistadors,
Your
beautiful clouds, dyed of hyacinth and gold, cotton egg whites scrambled against
a yolky sky that bleeds ceaselessly from a maternal wound whose rays stretch
until the limits of the frame. 
Oh,
great Apollo! You head to bed in this puddle of tears, announce the entrance to
the shot of
your sister, that cruel huntress who strips the colors from this abyss: whitens it,
blackens it. How many sailors wandered by these waters flooded by the pale
light of our lighthouse—red as the blood of the slaves who erected it? How
many children dragged their feet through that sand that erased their first steps, through that whiteness that reflects your blinding glow?
A single palm tree keeps his green, denying the achromaticity around him. All
alone, he yawns, wilts, and falls asleep.
Under
this gazebo, I bore witness to the shot which contained the death of gods, the death of life, and the death of emotions. All recorded by my dampened eyes,
drowned by an overwhelming sunset. 

Residuals by Eliza Dunn

1.
It is almost springtime and my mother has begun her faithful work
of turning the world inside out. She fills our kitchen bay window
with plants and plants—basil, lilies, mint, one tall purple orchid. 
See it like a still-life: woman and flower, woman as flower.
My mother leaning over the seedlings to count leaves 
like the breaths of her sleeping children. Fingertips turn over
dark soil. They are barely children anymore, she knows. 
Already the kitchen is quiet except for the green hum
of her plants, the grief-work of their soft throats. 

2.
An article in the newspaper’s living section explains how to make a space your own. It is implied that then, it will feel like home. The house in the photo is spacious and cloud-colored, surrounded by citrus trees. The caption lists details—scruffy lawn, salvaged wood, sea thrift flowers. Inside: an assemblage of things. Meaningful attachments. 

Last year, my sister and I cleaned out the home of a great-aunt who had just passed away. We went room by room, leaving each one dismantled and neatly catalogued: Books, Hand-me-downs, Dish towels, Silver. The last room was the kitchen. It was May, so we propped the windows half-open as we knelt on tiled floor, sorting cups and gold-rimmed china. I nestled dishes in moving paper and shut each cabinet quickly. I couldn’t bear to look at the empty shelves, the kitchen emptied and hanging open like a ribcage. 

3. 
Once I saw a woman dancing on a street corner,
arms gliding like snakes, hands grasping 

and pulling the air like ribbons. As I passed, I tried to see it
as she did—the sky, rippling. I remember her in strange moments:

driving, in line at the pharmacy, folding clothes
into neat piles. Each time, I wonder why she appears,

why I suddenly imagine her fingers pulling the world apart
and weaving it into something air-filled and lovely.

We find ways of preserving even what we don’t want to remember. 
Online, I click through photos—blue masks stitched into art, 

cotton artifacts that look like flowers.

4.
I come home to a house that feels emptier
than I remember. My parents are on the porch,
still unaware that I’m here. Through the window
I take a photo of them—so close, 
turned towards the scoop of ocean. 
The air fitting to their bodies like water.
I wait inside for a moment, trying to preserve
this moment—my parents, alone, watching
as day hollows itself, prepares for night. 

5.
The girl who lived in my bedroom before me left small proofs of her presence—
a teacup in the closet, a moon-shaped chip in the door, a wool sweater
(crumpled and too small for me) underneath the bed. Remnants of her life,
her leavetaking. One by one, I claimed them all as my own. 

I have learned that we are remembered by the things we leave behind—
pieces of self, small and glittering like glass. They collect, wind-blown, in the corners.
Now, I try to imagine what I will leave behind, the architecture of my existence.
I want even the walls to whisper it.

Yarn Mouse by Anonymous

You know what yarn feels like?
Of course
You know what yarn feels like. It’s
Soft and maybe itchy
Like tennis balls,
And
Sort of dense? When you squeeze it
Between your index and thumb,
And it comes together, hardens
Like
oobleck
.
Can you feel it?

During the last hour before I left home,
I saw this
Yarn painting
of a mouse
in the back of my attic.
The yarn lies in strings and strokes,
Long, uninterrupted threads that stretch the whole canvas on top,
And spiral inwards to fill the ears and the cheeks,
And zig-zag to texture the whiskers.
It’s all brown to me, with pinches of white and black.
I feel, in 2027, when they put me in the psych ward
They’ll make me make something like this.
It has psych ward texture, gentle, simple, designed
For tying up the frayed.
I bet, though, that my dad made it
for fun. Yes, he made it, that’s why I —
He was ADD too, or had it, like you have a cold,
A mold cold, a black mold cough cold, the one that goes away
When you die. Sorry, loose end —
Most of him went away when he died.

I’m left, then, with
Yarn Mouse.
Yarn Mouse is
Teaching me how to love. I’ve never been in love,
But I can try it. I can love like Yarn Mouse
Like careful, simple, soft and itchy and kinda dense
Like beige that makes me warm
And brown that burns
Like Auntie’s huggy eyes
Like soup
Like the word ‘homemade’
‘Homebody’
‘Home free’
Loose end. I mean to say

There’s this Canadian that I live with, Madeleine
Who doesn’t believe she deserves what she has,
And deserves so much more. I’ve never told her that. But it’s true. Madeleine looks like Yarn Mouse.
She smells like him too, and sounds like him, and tastes like him, and feels.
She feels:
Warm. Brown, and beige too.
There’s this soft spot on top of her head, next to the thread of white yarns. When she comes to me, and I
put my cheek there and huff dopamine like dessert —
When she texts me in class and I laugh/cry until I have to step out —
When she pancakes on the floor like hot roadkill —
When she listens.
In Yarn Mouse, my dad either twirled the yarn round and round, like spaghetti on a fork. Or he just
snipped off the end.

You know what yarn feels like?
When you press your cheek up to it,
Inhaling what’s there,
And it’s itchy and soft and you love, love, love.
You know.

¿Sabes Cómo Zapatear? by Edgar Morales

I.

¿Sabes cómo zapatear? Tío Pachuco
asked me at his daughter’s quince. I
swell my chest up, straighten my back,
throw my hands to my sides, bend
my knees, and start stomping. Loud and

fast. I throw in a spin or two. I look up,
sweat dripping down my back and
legs. ¿Así? He let out a loud laugh, Así
no joto. ¡Mírame! Mira como se baila

como un hombre. He tucked his shirt in. Grabbed
his Modelo Negra con una mano y con la otra
grasped onto his hat. And started stomping. His
body jumping up and down. A mixture of beer and
sweat gushing through his skin. Ahorra tu.
¿Sabes cómo zapatear? I ran off the dance
floor as my entire family walked la quinceañera
onto la pista zapateando.

II.

That night I went home and snuck into
Papi’s closet. His three Dodger sweaters, two
pairs of 501s, and one pair of Nike’s were the
only thing in sight. I threw myself and started
reaching. Grabbing. Looking. For something
to teach me como zapatear.

III.

Papi was the best dancer at any baile. The way
his body moved in and out of the trumpets, danced
with the drums, spinned around an imaginary
center, hands mirroring his legs kicking the floor and
the air. His arms spinning around him like a hula
hoop. Mami’s body a perfect reflection of his. And
at the bottom of all of this, his shiny brown
boots. Everyone wanted them. I wanted to
be in them.

IV.

Papi’s botas I found in the basement, so
dark I couldn’t see my own skin, didn’t
fit me. But I put them on anyway. ¿Qué
haces con mis botas? There he was. His
large silhouette standing behind me. Así no
se zapatea. Mira. Y con un grito he
told me to start. Sígueme. Haz lo que yo. We
danced around his hat all night long. Un hombre
bailando con otro hombre en la oscuridad. Slowly,
I started moving Papi’s botas up and down. My feet
sliding in and out with every stomp. My heels flailing and
searching for the ground.

LOVE ADVICE FROM THE LEAST QUALIFIED FRIEND by Mia Nelson

You are allowed to want what you want.
None of you want anything horrific—
In fact, most of you just want the bare minimum.  
I’ve been saying we need to add a genuine freak
to the group for some while now. Or just once, 
I’d like Marion to lean over our matcha lattes 
and ask about creative ways to incorporate toe-play, 
or have Becca call me in a panic over which kind of inflatable pool 
she should buy to impress the date with a floating kink. 
Anything but do I double text and whole tubs of vegan Ben and Jerry’s
because some kid who doesn’t wash his face didn’t wave at
Sarah on the sidewalk. Genuinely. How every mediocre alt-boy
in light colored jeans who skims his class readings has a 100%
hit rate on my supermodel friends kills me. Slays me. Guts me
until all my sparkly organs are spilled out. 
Sometimes I think I understand misogyny, 
can rise above misogyny, can look into the dreamy eyes of the male voyeur inside my head and say 
fuck you, dude. But then I’m having a full blown panic attack
because a man who scored lower on the ACT than me didn’t shoot me a degrading text at 1am—
even though I layed in my bed in neon green lingerie manifesting him. 
Even though I put on my organic deodorant proving that I 
a) smell good and b) care about the earth. 
Even though I waxed with little pink Sally Hanson strips that I rubbed between my hands to heat up. 
If you want something done right, you gotta do it yourself. 
Which is why I ruin my own day. When I feel lonely, 
I make it worse. I watch hours and hours of rom com movie trailers. 
There is a little Katheirne Heigl in my brain who tells me I am not good enough. I want to kiss her. 
But still, sometimes, my friends come to me for advice. Here we are, 
gathered around in our lululemons after cycling class or rock climbing or French 101
for the busy young professional, wielding Cosmopolitan magazine
as if it were the Rosetta Stone, dissecting a text from some guy
who doesn’t have hobbies. Seriously. We are some bad bitches.
Some neurotic bad bitches who read books just to talk about 
them at the party so we can be the bad bitches who read. 
How  many men have read a book to impress a hypothetical woman
at a hypothetical cocktail party? Hmmm????
But I’ve read every word on unrequited love. I tell my friends put yourself out there,
and I put myself in a dark room in all my heaviest clothes. I say believe in yourself
but everytime I walk past a store window I am shocked that I exist.
I remind them that love comes from within, while inside of me
is a haunted little amusement park that runs on the glitteriest loathing. Oh.
When you figure it out, remember me. How I used to know it all. 

Breeding Season by Teddy Press

Most of the apartment has become
a pigsty. Dishes and cups
strewn across the room have 
dropped seed and multiplied. 
It’s rutting season, for bacteria
anyways, but they can hit you like
a moose can wreck an F150; I feel like 
I’ve been hit by one, my head
aches and pounds, I’m sore, and 
it is difficult to stretch. The most
I can do is rise from my bedded
nest and hobble, struggle to raise a 
kettle to the faucet and fill, turn the knob
on the stove and ignite, take the 
tea packets from the cabinet and
tear, take the honey, too, and squeeze,
lift the hot cup and sip. Another mug
to add to the mess. Standing in the 
kitchen with frizzy hair, unkempt beard,
old, stained robe, sweat caked slippers.
That’s how you know it’s breeding season, baby.

Supermodel by Bidley Saladin

I love that my skin was Painted so dark by God.
He loves me so much.
The world is honored to have Me, sometimes.
I am honored to be me, always.
The concrete is my lover, my brothers have married sisters and yellow lines.
I married Authentic and we fucked forever.
I gaze straight into lens and become an eyeful,
Or an eyesore.
Black Pixie in Pixel.
I am sly like cunning fox, lustful of angels even after I met Me.
The world is honored to have Me, sometimes.
I wear My own red, I am My own Black.
Elegant and chanting, My pupils have gravity.
I am often lost in Me,
say the color of My skin is marble if you ask me,
perfectly sculpted and glowing.
Casket pretty, if you will.
My skin is shoe shine of malt liquor and corner.
My skin can grow trees, if you ask Me.
Pink and white daisies.
My blood has been honey for eternity, but we already know that.
My lips can heal, if you ask Me.
Power of fabric and ghost,
My mother used needles to mend fences.
I am Me always because we are seen, sometimes.
Superhero and superstitious of snow, Satan,
Or anything that can hold My skin.
I’d love to show it off before you can.
Monument of concrete, black boy to soil so effortlessly.
Corner and crumb to fire and unity for a few days.
I never apologize for existing.
I am My mother’s child after all.