I had every right to inhabit a space. If I were in Madrid to simply drink and eat and wander the city, I should be able to do so without being accused of mediocrity by the locals.

Another poem mannequin- Ing the body. Old hat, I know. Me too. I’m dead Tired. Dog-tired. My polyester bomber body Soiled with February snow. City snow, Lint gray. Yellow, yellow, yellow, Brown. So full of piss I won’t let my kid ball it, Eat it, lie

A prisoner with a life sentence investigates a solitary confinement coverup in Texas prisons.

“How will I know if I’m getting better?” asks my teenage patient. I’m treating him for depression, and lately he’s been thinking about driving his car off the road. Tonight he drove to the emergency room instead. I don’t know what the “professional”

2. Thought reduced to ashes — in the golden sky tracing lines. No more of time, already empty. What fills the air is the duration of the leaves. In the light the speaker turns clairvoyant in casual words. In the light the visible scenes illuminate th

To protect themselves from predators, snowshoe hares shed their fur, white in winter fur and brush-brown summer, again and again. The snowshoe hare and the moriviví, a common plant in Puerto Rico, are the centerpiece of this fable-like work from Raqu

Momma was most always purple, but the night she died, she was strawberry drifting into shamrock. Your true color comes back after you’re buried.

The New Dongbei Literature writer on “pure fiction,” genre novels, and revolutionary slogans.

Mariana Leonor. Leonor. Petronila. Juana Gabay. Maria Yslas. Juana Gonzalez. Luisa. Juana Casillas. Juana Josefa. María Micaela. Ana María. Nepomucena. María Josefa. Cecilia. Margarita. On Ancestry.com, I find the names of fifteen generations of wome

During communal riots in Gujarat, a Hindu woman battles against a self-percieved threat from a Muslim co-passenger.

It was the winter of my life. Afternoons, / I watched light fade / from the faces of brownstones.

When I arrived in the former Soviet country of Latvia as a US Peace Corps volunteer in 1999, the members of my cohort and I were still raw from the duck-and-cover legacy of the Cold War. At first, hearing Russian brought a primal shiver of fear. “Vot

The poet discusses the risks of false comparisons, objectification, and the need for distance.

It was the Professional Package that did it, that made Vero leave. She never said that directly, but that’s when we started falling apart.

Motherland was something without content or form, something utterly abstract — something that, in relation to a country like this, could only occupy the minds of those who’d never had it.

“The Man Who Touches Waves” is a short story that can be read as a sonic map drawn by a man who has gone blind. The narrative follows a nameless narrator who sets off alone one day to find his way to the sea. In Korean braille, the word for “sea” is

برای نسخه ی فارسی مقاله به این لینک مراجعه کنید. Depending on one’s pace, the season, and the ongoing state of war, it is a day’s hike from Andarab to the border of legendary Panjshir, the adjacent province in the highlands of Afghanistan. The two mo

تنهاترین رزمنده‌ی جهان با فانوسقه‌ی زیبای افغان که به آن پَرتَلَه یا چانتَه می¬گویند مرثیه ای برای سبزعلی اندرآبی که از میان گروهی رزمنده‌ی اندرآبی پیش از جلسه‌ی تاکتیکی به دوربین خیره شده است. در کنارش حبیب رحمان خان، فرمانده‌ی باصلابت نیروی مرکزی و

The strata of five snowfalls cover the ground as I climb out of bed one February morning. Ice-powder-ice-powder-ice: they lie according to the usual pattern of Iowa winters, when the days between storms bring just enough sun to melt the top layers, a

No one knew where the FTs came from. Like the basketball that hit you in the nose out of nowhere, they just materialized in front of us and walked into our life with their long legs.

The tune is just three chords, the I, IV7, V7 progression common in Gospel and a lot of New Orleans music, suited to both exultation in the pews and good-natured debauchery. According to Mac (Dr. John) Rebennack, one of the many artists who covered i

Tamanda Kanjaye’s “Song of the Lake” is an exercise in surrendering to our sonic environments. It’s a moment of stillness amid noise and haste. Originally published by Doek! Literary Magazine, in Namibia, Kanjaye’s multimedia piece presents a triptyc

“Therefore I think my breast hath all/those pieces still, though they be not unite;” – John Donne, “The Broken Heart” The last man who touched my tits cut them off: finally a guy who understood me. He keeps saying I’m a “healthy guy” & I’m not sure i

Vanessa Hua’s latest novel, Forbidden City, is the story of an ambitious, savvy teenage girl and her rise to power alongside the leader of China’s cultural revolution. Initially, the novel had dual timelines: one in 1960s China and the other in 1970s

The opioid antagonist counteracts overdoses within minutes. But, for it to work, people have to show up for one another.

Things had always gone over the cliff. Peat bricks spent from burning, fish skeletons picked of flesh, tufts of gritty wool loosed from skeins. Elin’s uncle walked off its edge the year his health turned. He chose his exit one ordinary night, leaving

Armed soldiers were stationed here and there. Grannies wondered why we remained in the north. We should come home.

The artist talks about creating vibrant celebrations of Asian identity in her large yellow paintings.

In a hybrid text, Madeleine Slavick registers her protest against the gradual erosion of civil rights in Hong Kong.