Articles

A teacher once told me that she could see auras. That each body pulses, its faint glow only visible to some. I believed her, but could not conjure them, even when squinting. Only body and light: paper cut-outs. My mom rang to tell me. I brushed off the tone; her dealings trended serious. Always heart-lurch. …

mā grew up in the lon-daon I grew up at the crossroad where dialects cloak mandarin mispronouncing her upbringingaccents boiling in a potluck staple lon-daon as nòng tángher generation marinates my generation sips chai in the sweetness of braised pork bellies but we call it tea as iflongjing weds English Breakfast & the colonizers own …

1. You kicked like an ass, bony knees and elbows flailed, trapped inside my cage. We both wanted you out. You didn’t rock-a-bye, peek-a-boo, patty-cake. You couldn’t carry a note to sing the rain, rain go away. You crushed Georgie Porgie. You kissed, then bit, his girls. You cooed and cawed, my wretched dove.Everyone cried …

Winner of the 2025 Tobias Wolff Fiction Award In the car, Chicken’s head thumps against the window every time the screws rattle, which is always. So it sounds like krrrCHrattle thHumpB and then the spitting of the car’s exhaust. It’s an old beast. It hurts to lay her head against the car’s window, but Chicken’s already committed to the act. She will keep her head here …

Wrote this on my sneakers at 15, the summer after you died.A decade and change later, a baby you’ll never know sings, He has strong eyes and I know that’s poetry. The tiniest toesin the world, my big purple ones flutter and curl around his soul. Can I keep him forever? Can we always go …

Tuuli Qin-Terrill is a poet and scientist adopted from China living in Northern Michigan. Her work has appeared in The Inflectionist Review, Dunes Review, Halfway Down the Stairs, among others. Currently, she works as a remote biopharmaceutical researcher and is an MFA candidate at Northern Michigan University where she is a poetry editor for Passage …

The blood of the gods has left me, drips on the face of the cliff,green scrub break through red dust, toadstool hoodoos hover on the horizon.I am blue like my beloved, breathless,tracking the dried traces of dinosaurs on hills made sacred by their death.My hand rests, small in the awkward depression,surrounded by even smaller stones …

1.Grandpa Timothy, my mother’s father, smells like old newspapers, wears a tweed jacket no matter the weather. At family gatherings, I join the line of cousins waiting to dance with our grandfather, life of the party. Famous for slipping money into our young palms so our mothers don’t take it from us under the guise …

Jay Julio (they/them) is a first-generation Filipinx-American musician, writer, and educator from New York. Finalist in poetry competitions held by the Philadelphia Stories, Meridian, and Mississippi Review, their writing has appeared in the Cincinnati Review, ROOM, Barrelhouse Mag, Foglifter, and Poetry Online, among other venues. Interests include abolition and ube confectioneries. Find them on IG …

after Alexander Clapp’s Waste Wars: The Wild Life of Your Trash making pennies by the hour to pull apart our cellphones, chargers, our tv remotes and big-screens the burner boys work the technically dead bare-handed extracting elements dug from earth now homeless in a graveyard in Accra, capital of Ghana, a place that wanted a …