Making Waves in 1798 by Tammi Truax
Aug19

Making Waves in 1798 by Tammi Truax

  “Making Waves in 1798” by Tammi Truax   “I can tell when Gaja smell water. Can read it in the way she move. This is way a’fore any water’s in sight. She get excited. It’s the only time that she take to walking at a fast clip. Mister like her to go fast.” Solomon whispered as if Mister Owen was within earshot. “He think we travel too slow. Makes more money if we git places faster. But we like the slow walk.” He...

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You Are Migrant by Katherine DiBella Seluja
Aug19

You Are Migrant by Katherine DiBella Seluja

  “You Are Migrant” by Katherine DiBella Seluja   which is to say you are standing in a line a very long line you are grasping the fist of a child you do not know you will not lose this child you don’t know where this line will lead you but you know well what it took you from you are from Syria, Tunisia, Mexico, Ukraine a sack holds your belongings in other words please God, praise Allah enough to barter for your...

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Diaspora by Faith Holsaert
Aug19

Diaspora by Faith Holsaert

  “Diaspora” by Faith Holsaert                Our inheritance in the Diaspora is to live in this inexplicable space–Dionne Brand if there was a curtain we didn’t notice if there was something other than raspberries among dusty leaves we didn’t see we saw how the path wound up from the creek we knew we had to carry we knew the old man in the next town we...

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The, a lyrical soliloquy by Chiori Miyagawa
Aug19

The, a lyrical soliloquy by Chiori Miyagawa

  “The, a lyrical soliloquy” by Chiori Miyagawa   How can anyone read my chart with either thirteen or fourteen-hour differences, depending on when the candies go on sale for Halloween? Maybe fate just means chronology. Or it’s an April first joke or the second. A man’s name is a man’s name, it takes three generations to undo it. I have a girl, she has a girl, and fingers crossed, like that. At some dinner, I...

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The Weight of White by Lorraine Mejia
Aug19

The Weight of White by Lorraine Mejia

  “The Weight of White” by Lorraine Mejia   He brought her to his orchard home of white snow, holding her out with pride so his family could see her beauty. They only saw her accent, saw through the bleached hair. Woman with Aztec blood! Father tried desperately to make them see. In the farmhouse attic bedroom, the grandfather clock that used to rock him to sleep now watched as she silently cried, reapplied...

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