Daffodils
My mother chose clothes toned in pastel and soft wool sheared of pink and brown. Something wrong with her shalwar kameez- she could tell her identity wasn’t for the 9-5, so she hid it in a button-down. Professional, kempt, clean. Adapting to an alien rhythm- monotony isn’t so hard.
The Amman I know
the Amman I know, wakes up early in the summer stretching out her feet as the adhan sounds. streets remain silent bas the scraping of sweepers and the corner bakery rolling up its shutters. slowly, the city awakens with the honks of taxis and squeaky carts of ka’ak bread, she stirs as the national
Prison Pen Pals
Entering the WriteAPrisoner.com website, the user is greeted by a seemingly endless list of prisoners. Advertising to potential penpals with a photo and a short biography, these inmates are looking to bridge the gap to the outside world and stave off feelings of isolation. Unable to reach out themse
Interview with Torrey Peters
It is a warm summer day in Oxford and I wake up to find myself in the armchair where I’d been reading late into the night before. Initially, I had planned to only flick through Detransition, Baby once more so that it would be as clear in my mind as possible before the interview. However, […
As you lay dying, in a language I barely knew
As you lay dying, you coughed up worm-strings of words in a language I barely knew. Smooth platefuls of sound, slipping like the silver-butter of moonlight on a pond. Ephemeral. If I cannot conjugate (I cannot) – I die, you die, she would die, too, – how can I feel the rough edges of [&he
Weaverbirds
We used to climb the thorn trees when we were boys And annoy the weavers building their summer nests. I always kept my shoes on. You were older, Your footholds surer, scrambling up on palms and soles Dusted gold with pollen. You found where the birds Were at work. They were spinning dry grass into [