The roof hangs over our heads like a large, strange tooth, rendering us tiny sardines, flipping about nervously, in the open mouth of Dulles Airport’s whale interior: brutalist beams, overhanging
Author: Akbota Saudabayeva
Dear Reader, I did not know how to speak when I came to this country. Wide-eyed and Cyrillic-sympathetic, I learned English at age five. My parents often tell me that I cried on the way home from the first Monday of school because I thought all the kids spoke Kyrgyz. English did not yet exist
late in new hampshire, leah teaches me to swim. “my house is your home—” the light pouring in, the window and its sunbeams: humble, open hand. breakfast pots clatter, curly hair in my omelet, a snort, laugh, and smile. a pale sky belies a hot and heavy sunlight that warms like a song. a pen,
—After “Do You Speak Virgin” by Analicio Sotelo This afternoon is some hell: The sun, a proud prick, wears high-tops and catches in my eye. An egg cracks in my mind, glaire spilling over into my tear ducts. My fists clench. A sour wave springs to my stomach, acidic as an