Poetry

Bruh

By JONATHAN MOODY

after Jamaica Kincaid
 
be honest with your psychiatrist about how the meds have kept you from cumming: 
even while fantasizing about Priyanka Chopra—her cascading curls, 
tumbling down her shoulders; don’t feel ashamed after your lover has suggested 
other ways to be intimate: like learning how to speak Urdu so that on sleepless nights 
you can recite Ghalib’s ghazals to her while holding hands near the mango tree; 
on the rare chance you’re not awake, smash the snooze button; 
continue dreaming about a world where you don’t perceive that therapy 
is just for white folks; forget what your family says; you can’t shake off suicidal

Bruh
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La Corrida

By AIDEED MEDINA 

Es de madrugada.
 
It is dawn          always dawn
      the sun breaking through
             the breaking of the soil.
 
The faint smell of rain from irrigated dirt
crusts of mud from the crop rows
comes home with my father
on his pants and beneath his fingernails.

La Corrida
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The Struldbruggs

By R. ZAMORA LINMARK

No I do not want everlasting life
to be condemned to forever here
on this wasted earth no merci messieurs
unlike the Struldbruggs hailed all the way
from the island-nation of Luggnagg
discovered at the end of Book Three
of Jonathan Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels

The Struldbruggs
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Why I Cannot Celebrate the Ruling Still to Come (II)

By NED BALBO

Because I still remember my mother’s scar,
six inches long, an inch wide, sunken gash
below her waist, forever unexplained.
Because the scar looked rushed, a knife’s quick work
closed with no time to lose. Because, watching
her dress, I felt both love and mystery, 
questions evaded, others left unasked.

Why I Cannot Celebrate the Ruling Still to Come (II)
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