Latest Writing
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MONTHLY with Alexander Duringer
Alexander Duringer is from Buffalo, NY and earned his MFA in Poetry from North Carolina State University. He is a winner of the American Academy of Poets Prize as well as the Bruce & Marjorie Petesch Award. In 2022 he was a finalist for The Sewanee Review’s annual poetry contest. His poems have appeared or…
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INTERVIEW WITH Alexander Duringer
Alexander Duringer is from Buffalo, NY and earned his MFA in Poetry from North Carolina State University. He is a winner of the American Academy of Poets Prize as well as the Bruce & Marjorie Petesch Award. In 2022 he was a finalist for The Sewanee Review’s annual poetry contest. His poems have appeared or…
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INTERVIEW WITH Jared Harél by Urvashi Bahuguna
Jared Harel’s poems are quiet records of the layers inside the ordinary days of our lives, exposing the restless forces and memories that power and threaten our most mundane actions. In “Behind The Painted Railguard,” the poet is standing in an amusement park with his mother, watching his young son on a ride. He uses…
POETRY
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GOLD by Kunjana Parashar
Lately, I’ve been yearning for things: car keys, houseplants, dhurries, cubes of ice, petals, but really for something skin-deep. I keep addressing myself as we; like I am the bull & I am the matador. I am the prayer and the devotee. We are prying open our mouths to sing. We are the ear and…
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BLUE PERIOD by James O’Leary
It’s 9:31 PM where the end of the city tinges the sea. An empty spiderweb hangs motionless between the blinds & the closed window leaking the street’s neon onto the unmade bed. No moon. Not even the comfort of wine, bottles shaped like the body I want, & will never have.…
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THE YEAR YOU DIED by Vasvi Kejriwal
05/19: A tornado flung a fridge into the bones of a tree. Its bark, gnarled, like the mouth of someone, new to grief. 05/22: I found your pen at the edge of the dresser. Yet to collect dust, it held your fading fingermarks. 06/18: Then, hunger…
FICTION
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ASHES by Nandita Naik
The river Ganga seethes with ashes. We shove our elbows into each other’s sides, muscle our way in to look. The bodies of our grandmothers and grandfathers burn on the cremation ghats. We watch them become less like bodies and more like a collection of burning fabric and bone marrow and veins turning into ash.…
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DON’T CALL ME YOUR PRINCESS by Megan Culhane Galbraith
Once upon a time, there was a young girl who lost her mother too soon. Cinderella’s grief was bottomless. Every day she visited her mother’s grave. “Where is my great love?” she asked. One day her mother answered. “Cinder, dear, your great love is inside you. You must be yourself, for it is only then…
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MONTHLY: Fiction Editors Emeritae
GIRLS OF LEAST IMPORTANCE by K.K. Fox K.K. Fox lives in Nashville, Tennessee. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in Iron Horse, NELLE, Joyland, Kenyon Review Online, and others. She is a fiction editor for Los Angeles Review. THE LUCKY ONES by Hananah Zaheer Hananah Zaheer’s writing has appeared in Virginia Quarterly Review,…
TRANSLATION
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RADISH FLOWER by Jang Seoknam, trans. Paulette Guerin and Claire Su-Yeon Park
Is a path one travels alone also a road? The radish flower has bloomedalong a hidden pathafter others have been planted. In the swamp, the radish flower has bloomedwithout a flag,without a flagpole,its heart coming alone, late spring arriving with only its body.Woo woo. Like a Molotov Cocktail,I bloomed late, among the radish flowers.Roads ahead and behind are…
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TWO POEMS by Beatriz Pérez Pereda trans. Colleen Noland
“Untitled” Lucía nursed her anguish for thirty-six years (she didn’t know sadness is an animal that doesn’t understand flattery). There are no pictures of her: she was afraid of the eye in the camera lens, since it was said it could bewitch a soul and make feet clumsy on cliffs. Everything about her is a…
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MOTHER TONGUE by Adil Tuniyaz trans. Munawwar Abdulla
We were born like goldon this sparkling brown land. It fell, ringingfrom the mouth of an Uyghur angel,its music sunk into our ears.Oh, mother tongue,we became wanderers,and have moved far from your horizons. Opium poppiesbring the scent of the seas,thoughts kept moist for a while. I have left the radio on.It speaksin the wind. Cool…
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