I stand before you, though, O Allah, the daughter // to Abraham’s father. Here is my sacrifice: / hold him close, as You did with Ismael.

Listen, we can stay here forever, in Tucson, / rain is a fable and we don’t need / a story to fall asleep.

it’s spring, or whatever / season it is for laughter or slaughter, a // difference of one letter between one state / of being and another

REPEAT: you stay up memorizing all the twists and turns of a ‘proper’ / enunciation and still your tongue fails you the morning after, syllables / flopping in your mouth like a dead fish, cleaved in shame.

Writers of the Bangladeshi diaspora reflect on liberation and identity.

Kutenun seikat mimpi / dari telapak pemigi | I weave a bundle of dreams / from the palm of the pemigi loom

거울로 들어가는 문을 찾지 못해 / 내게는 오늘의 밤이 계속된다 | Since I / can’t find the door, the night ceases to end

Poem by Sơn Ca, translated by Lan Anh and poem by Kai Ng, translated by Thu Uyên

I’m not proud of what I’ve done. One foot bent in the gaze of the lake as if pleading to be consumed immediately.

I would never have to shed my skin / in my leaving.

Anahita’s head weighs 10 kilograms. Her hand, extended forward yet / disconnected from the bust, holds a fragment of drapery.

And who could forget / when he declared he was going to marry himself, /showing up to Barnes and Noble in a wedding dress

និស្វាសវាត / អស្សាសវាត / បស្សាសនៃ / ខ្យល់ចេញមិនចូល | In, out, held – / so goes the breath. / Winds leave but no longer come