They’re a stretch, / these contiguities between land and mind— / but consider the speed limit: / over a hundred the whole way back / to Hope
In her debut collection Shahr-e-jaanaan, Adeeba Shahid Talukder asks: What would happen if we smashed the unjust barriers between profane and sacred, wretchedness and beauty, human and God?
perhaps, every day is always a ‘perhaps’, a ‘maybe’, for queer people in Indonesia, since every day is a fight, a faith, a hope
The author of The Magical Language of Others, a heart-wrenching story of parent-child separation, speaks to the linguistic, historical, emotional surprises in writing her memoir.
In the Texas prison system, my name is Chino. You will not know who I am unless you are immediate family or one of my few friends.
Imagine the tens of millions of years that American prisons have stolen, woven back into society.
The green fruit would collect on the ground before we threw them to be devoured with the fervor we reserved for galas and granny smiths.
“Giving women voice” does not necessarily mean they will be heard or believed. From feminist refusal in Chang-Rae Lee’s A Gesture Life to the quiet resistance of comfort women statues.
When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.
The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.
A headline buried deep inside the paper catches my eye. “They’re extending AFSPA for another six months in Assam,” I announce. She nods, and continues to massage the green beans in her bowl.
Mishima’s Patriotism reveals the drives operating behind political movements and how ultranationalistic ideas become deeply entangled in the personal
In a new collection from A World Without Cages, seven writers reflect on building a different future while holding the weight of the past
Two women write about imprisonment, one from the outside and one from the inside.
Mom and I would share toast, shedding crumbs all over the bed while I asked her other questions, like if it was possible to move things with your eyes, what the word “fuck” meant, if angels existed or if she could tell me the story about when she and Dad got me from Nanchang.
There’s no shame in loving durian at this New York City haven.
What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.
In her debut collection Shahr-e-jaanaan, Adeeba Shahid Talukder asks: What would happen if we smashed the unjust barriers between profane and sacred, wretchedness and beauty, human and God?
A headline buried deep inside the paper catches my eye. “They’re extending AFSPA for another six months in Assam,” I announce. She nods, and continues to massage the green beans in her bowl.
perhaps, every day is always a ‘perhaps’, a ‘maybe’, for queer people in Indonesia, since every day is a fight, a faith, a hope
Mishima’s Patriotism reveals the drives operating behind political movements and how ultranationalistic ideas become deeply entangled in the personal
The author of The Magical Language of Others, a heart-wrenching story of parent-child separation, speaks to the linguistic, historical, emotional surprises in writing her memoir.
In a new collection from A World Without Cages, seven writers reflect on building a different future while holding the weight of the past
In the Texas prison system, my name is Chino. You will not know who I am unless you are immediate family or one of my few friends.
Two women write about imprisonment, one from the outside and one from the inside.
Imagine the tens of millions of years that American prisons have stolen, woven back into society.
Mom and I would share toast, shedding crumbs all over the bed while I asked her other questions, like if it was possible to move things with your eyes, what the word “fuck” meant, if angels existed or if she could tell me the story about when she and Dad got me from Nanchang.
The green fruit would collect on the ground before we threw them to be devoured with the fervor we reserved for galas and granny smiths.
There’s no shame in loving durian at this New York City haven.
“Giving women voice” does not necessarily mean they will be heard or believed. From feminist refusal in Chang-Rae Lee’s A Gesture Life to the quiet resistance of comfort women statues.
When they called me spoiled, they meant that I was a rotten fruit, left out to waste in the humidity, sullied by forces beyond their control.
What a royal feeling to look into that bag and imagine something new on my tongue on a day like that.
The kumquat’s sweetness was a disguise, and once it was disrobed in your mouth, the meat inside was sour enough to make your mouth buck, to wring your tongue of its language.
I wondered how many cherries babies could eat, and what they might think of the taste, or if they just know that the sugar tasted good.