by Leila Chatti
At a distance, I assume others are kind, and this seems an essential difference.
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by Joe Kadi
After dinner, when Baba goes to wash up, I tug on Mama’s sleeve. “When you go,” I say, “how will I know who I am?”
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In a time of hatreds. Record this memory of us (not) touching. Our lips (un)locked. Hands (un) twined. Letters braid with mine. Enbrine.
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