Latest Writing
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INTERVIEW WITH KARISMA PRICE
Karisma Price is a poet, screenwriter, and media artist. Her work has appeared in Oxford American, Poetry, Four Way Review, wildness, Adroit Journal, and elsewhere. She is a Cave Canem Fellow, was a finalist for the 2019 Manchester Poetry Prize, and was awarded the 2020 J. Howard and Barbara M. J. Wood Prize from the…
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INTERVIEW WITH Stella Lei
Stella Lei is a writer from Pennsylvania and an Editor–in–Chief for The Augment Review. Rhythmic and resonant, her debut prose chapbook, Inheritances of Hunger (River Glass Books, 2022), is a vivid, thrilling collection featuring five stories punctuated by cruelty and intimacy as she interrogates generational hurt through the rawness of hunger and girlhood. Emily Judkins/Four…
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INTERVIEW WITH Robyn Creswell
Forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux this fall is the long-awaited collection of poetry by Iman Mersal, translated by Robyn Creswell, titled The Threshold. The author of five books of poems, Mersal is a highly acclaimed Egyptian poet and writer, currently based in Canada, where she teaches Arabic language and literature at the University of…
POETRY
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YESTERDAY AUSTIN TOLD ME TWO SWANS by Arro Mandell
drowned a local man for coming too close and Thomas and I laughed but I still think if I don’t count my teeth they’ll be taken, can’t be careful enough out here. Last night I stepped onto a stage heaped with dead fish. I was looking for the right earrings…
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PASSTHROUGH by Haley Lee
After the play we talk while we wait for the C with our shoes touching on the platform. Say, when the magician unrolled the sea, an old tunnel in us burst open. Lights off, all air – with you I believe in water wrung from paper. They didn’t need to use names to make us…
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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…
FICTION
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EXCERPT FROM THE HISTORY OF LITERACY by K-Ming Chang
Smaller Uncle claimed he could predict a flood was coming when all his nose-hairs swooned and sprinkled the sink. A long time ago, before he washed cars, he used to be a weatherman, which I thought meant he could manufacture weather, plucking out strands of his own hair to double as lightning, the way the…
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QUARTO: Zion by Kate Lister Campbell
This summer, all the kids call themselves Zion. They come one by one and hang on the fence behind the backboard, then drift in until they’re standing under the basket, waiting for the rebound off my shot. Teams form by nods and dissolve at eleven or twenty-one, each of us…
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BIRD by Anjanette Delgado
The summer I became a bird —the very week, in fact— the meatpacking warehouse across the street turned into a dance club. At first, it was called “The Killing Room” and then, tall walls repainted to a sky blue, “Cielo.” I’d heard someone say that it had no ceiling, only skylights, and the idea…
TRANSLATION
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THREE POEMS by Anne Vegter trans. Astrid Alben
With permission from the publisher WILDCARD A light-hearted lullaby this, not much happens that doesn’t already happen somewhere else: a garnet-red baby opens wide its tiny jungle mouth. Familiar to all who read them, lullabies are about kisses, jealousies and parents / keepers. Raging in the pillow, rising like a statue made of ash. A parent is a house.…
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CHEWING BETEL NUT by Mark Dorado trans. Eric Abalajon and Mark Dorado
This mouth grows in it a forestborn from the spitof the godsof my land;chews a wildfirethat blackens the stumps of my teeth;hums the serenadeof our greatest hunters. This mouth can utter to lifethe many names of our ancestorsthe conquerors could neverwrap their tongues around,the ones they spat with regretas their teeth disintegrated,choking on the sharpinflections of the…
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THE GARDEN IS THIS GARDEN by Hélène Cixous trans. Beverley Bie Brahic
My days come and go, their almost motionless river is swept with traces, am I in the river’s current or on the edge? I see the shores of Lethe. The river repeats itself unchangingly, on and on, endlessly until we heave ourselves, the river and me, out. The garden is This Garden. This garden is…
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