Sofia Belimova

Love, Under a Falling Sky

April 27, 2020 Issue 19, Issue 19 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry, Poetry Recordings

The Common Magazine · “Love, Under A Falling Sky” by Megan Pinto

Say Chicken Little was right, that the sky
is falling. What I want to know is,
will the moon fall too? Will it bounce softly
like swiss cheese, or will it crumble
like a stale cookie? Do skies bruise?
Do they ache? And is the sky
a metaphor for all the ills and evils
of the world? A testament
to how the earth can only hold so much
pain and grief? But why
would God send a chicken? Would you listen
to a chicken? Is the chicken a metaphor
for Jesus? Did the Bible mention this
and somehow I missed it? Is this because
in 6th grade my teacher made me promise Jesus
my virginity in a gift basket? Actually, if the sky falls,

Nothing More Human

April 27, 2020 Essays, Issue 19, Issue 19 Essays

By SURAJ ALVA

You are in a chamber, waiting for the bailiff.

When he comes in, you wish you had been killed. Not your brother.

The rusted scent of the metal chair you’re on reminds you of the smell of his blood on your hands, chest, and hair: sweetly pungent with a strong hint of iron.

You start hearing his choked gurgles, see the blood spouting from his mouth. Smelling again the gunpowder-laced air between your body and his. The gurgling stops, his eyes close, and alarm strikes your throat numb, temporarily freezing your screams. His body begins to tremble, violently.

Modern Gods

April 27, 2020 Issue 19, Issue 19 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry

By JOHN FREEMAN

The Common Magazine · “Modern Gods” by John Freeman

Backlit by the glow
from a small passageway,
he kneels into the fog
of yellow light,
head kissing the carpet.
I step around him,
respecting his privacy, when
the mat becomes not prayer
rug but builder’s tool,
a black piece of tarmac, laid down
before the bank so he could
peer close, fix the dead
motion sensor so that people
with money could
be seen, all doors opening
for them.

Love Poem with Forgetting

April 27, 2020 Issue 19, Issue 19 Poetry, Poetry

By DANA ALSAMSAM

I come home and for a moment before the door clicks shut
you don’t hear me. You go along singing Morrissey, cooking
what smells like potatoes, pouring Bulleit into a glass I bought.

The Way Cacti Quiver

April 27, 2020 Issue 19, Issue 19 Poetry, Poetry

By SARA ELKAMEL

I am beginning to think about the middle,
and how we should behave in it.

When I say you held me closer than clouds hold birds
you tell me it was coincidence we slept at all.

Of course I want it to stop. I dream every night of a man
with the head of a man and the body of a scary sea creature.

I dream the man is lost so I carry him home. Of course
I mistake water for home and home for water but at least, I try.

Brother Love

April 27, 2020 Essays, Issue 19, Issue 19 Essays

By TANYA COKE

I.

Scrawny was my first thought. I’d babysat enough by then to place his age at just shy of a year. As my father handed him to me, the baby arched his back in protest, his chicken butt threatening to escape his diaper completely. I could tell that a man had fastened it, because the tape on the sides was all askew.

“Come, say hello to your brother,” Daddy said, smiling.

Notebooks of Maladies

April 27, 2020 Arabic Fiction, Issue 19, Issue 19 Fiction, Translation

By EMAD BLAKE

Translated by ELISABETH JAQUETTE

1—Idiot

The oldest boys in the neighborhood—“bullies,” as our Egyptian neighbors would say—chased that boy… chased me.

I’d long been obsessed with watching Egyptian TV shows and films, sneaking into the cinema to see them because in our house it was forbidden… “forbidden, boy, to go there.ˮ According to my mother, grandmother, and the other women in the neighborhood, screens are the devil’s handiwork: they corrupt good boys and girls. Of course, they’re poor women, without an ounce of luck.

The Infidel and the Devil

April 27, 2020 Arabic Fiction, Issue 19, Issue 19 Fiction, Translation

By MOHAMED BADAWI HIGAZI

Translated by ROBIN MOGER

Not many of us knew Sharif. He had been gone from the village for more than thirty years, and the few times his name came up, the person in question would glance around and lower their voice almost to a whisper. Men’s heads would cluster together in brief and hasty conference. And should his father, Sheikh Abdennabi Wadd Saleh, appear at the head of the alley and walk their way, or his mother, Hagga Amina Bint Suleiman, approach the store, they would fall silent or change the conversation.

Perfectly Spaced

April 22, 2020 Dispatches

By LIESL SWOGGER

They jog past my window. A clump of three white-haired men, a tight pyramid formation, the front two shoulder to shoulder, the third right on their heels. And I’ll be honest, my first thought is not charitable. “Fucking men,” I think, taking a swig of my coffee. “They never think the rules apply to them. Do they think they’re invincible?”

Ode to the Floor

April 21, 2020 Essays

By SUFIYA ABDUR-RAHMAN

My boy is on the floor again. I’ve just told him he has to get in the shower, before dinner, after homework, after only five minutes of TV.

“What?” he protested in a drawn-out whine that contorted his face into a buskin tragedy mask before collapsing onto the floor. His body, prone and straight, swivels from side to side. He pulls his knees into his chest. Now he thrusts his feet down, then back, and almost behind him, as if doing a hamstring stretch. However he moves, thrashing, flailing, it is not vertical. To move up or around or about—even if stomping, even if screaming, even while crying out—would convey a sense of acceptance. “I don’t want to do what you ask, but I’m willing!” such a movement would say.

Sofia Belimova

sbelimova

Love, Under a Falling Sky

Nothing More Human

Modern Gods

Love Poem with Forgetting

The Way Cacti Quiver

Brother Love

Notebooks of Maladies

The Infidel and the Devil

Perfectly Spaced

Ode to the Floor

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