Something burning or maybe already burnt/ A cataract climbs a triage/ How many bushels in an apple?
In the morning we share cigarettes, and coffee.
Whatever is cool. Whatever is fine. Simple is fine.
The song /in your ears can be stopped/ with wax, or pink foam plugs/rolled between forefinger & thumb/ then shoved in.
Four poems from the Israeli poet Ortsion Bartana, translated from the original Hebrew by Hana Inbar and Robert Manaster.
A fly will strike its head ninety times/ before it finds an open window.
Museum of the Americas interrogates the white gaze and how the curation of the archive is another palimpsestic layer of control and power.
I’d like to talk to this photo of me next to the piano,/ To the eleven year-old boy with flaming cheeks.
Three poems from Sara Shagufta's book Aankhein which have been translated from the original Urdu by Arshi Yaseen.
How could you know it would be like this:/ touching the keys of a piano/ and not finding a sound about it.
Before the beds went away/ There were bedtimes.
Susannah Nevison talks about disability, mass incarceration, and her upcoming collection, Lethal Theatre.