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Issue 4

Cover Art by Jaqueline Evans-Shaw

Herencia

2/19/2023

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Ángel García
You never mentioned the switches or stones, the unhung crucifijo 
tearing into your back, your father running you out, no eres mi hijo. 
 
Late-night, TV aglow, you never said the name of who hurt you. 
Instead, my head cradled in your lap, you’d tell me, I love you mi’jo. 
 
What bones we may break, may we break the bones of our pasts, 
skeletons dragged over scarred lifetimes, en nombre del padre, el hijo... 
 
the ghosts of our wounds, dark-winged words we’ve never shared, 
are what keep us bound, rooted for generations, de tal palo tal astilla. 
 
You’ve never been your father, just as I’ve won’t be you. Still, how 
could I be a better angel, Papi, when I’ve never been a good son.

Ángel García, a proud son of Mexican immigrants, is the author of Teeth Never Sleep (University of Arkansas Press), winner of a CantoMundo Poetry Prize, winner of an American Book Award, and finalist for the PEN America Open Book Award and Kate Tufts Discovery Award. He currently lives in Champaign, IL.
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La Bestia

2/19/2023

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Ángel García
​he clears the jungle for track
            In Tuxtla
                she washes clothes on river rock

the low growl of the tractor 
            trembling
                near the river’s edge she sweats

fever spreads through his body
            heart tense
                from her fear of the tree lines

he cuts the motor and stumbles
            back home
                she tells her child to stay close

everything green grows into dark
            shadows
                begin to stalk their young prey

what slowly feeds on his wrought body
            will kill
                a child momentarily unattended 

dragging his body through a trail
            his cries
                echoed by a mother who mourns

for home, he wants to go back home
            to live
                she knows they must leave here

to get away from the train, the beast
            la bestia
                that will consume her family whole

Ángel García, a proud son of Mexican immigrants, is the author of Teeth Never Sleep (University of Arkansas Press), winner of a CantoMundo Poetry Prize, winner of an American Book Award, and finalist for the PEN America Open Book Award and Kate Tufts Discovery Award. He currently lives in Champaign, IL.
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First Generation

2/19/2023

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Ángel Garcìa

1
Born two-eyed, one-nosed, fat-tongued, belly
protruded, extraordinarily average, still they’ll
praise you, your parents, as un bebe perfecto.
How quickly you gorge yourself on everything

you are given. And still, you wallow and whine
for more privilege. It’s not your nature to savor
your blessings. A healthy appetite, they’ll claim.
He’s a growing boy, they’ll excuse, when before

everyone else has been served, you demand having
seconds. What you taste deep down in the back
of your throat, bile-like, is not your heart burning
—but guilt. Sour from what you feel you deserve.

2
Your love is conditional, admit it. It always has
been. It’s ripe with your expectations: the cheap
currency of tit for tat; vice-versa; bubble gum,
bubble gum in a dish. More than your love for

your immigrant parents, you’re consumed with
how you must change them, to make from their
poor, unfortunate lives a better inheritance. You
make them suffer through your Sunday sermons,

preaching about decolonization, the enlightened
path they must follow to be saved from their self
-inflicted misery, all while speaking a language they
don’t understand. Homesick for a home-cooked

meal, you order ahead, and stay only long enough
to pick up your meal and riffle through cupboards
for the expired canned goods they hoard to feed
themselves, but not you because you deserve better.

3
During your graduation party, you strut through
the backyard, bragging to everyone about the size
of your citizenship, wagging your degrees in their
dark faces. Finally, when you introduce your parents

to acquaintances and colleagues, you snicker behind
their backs when they mispronounce a word in English.
When they divulge where they come from, or how they
came here, you smack your teeth and talk over their past.

Ever since you could walk, you’ve believed you could
manifest your own destiny with no help from no one.
You needed to believe that to make something of your
-self. But no one here recognizes you, Chicano prince.

Ángel García, a proud son of Mexican immigrants, is the author of Teeth Never Sleep (University of Arkansas Press), winner of a CantoMundo Poetry Prize, winner of an American Book Award, and finalist for the PEN America Open Book Award and Kate Tufts Discovery Award. He currently lives in Champaign, IL.
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pornographer

2/19/2023

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Ami Xherro
Am I alone here?
Am I the only
masturbator
on this page?
Did you 
or did you not
jerk to 
your white
fleeting
gods
earlier today,
reading 
the newspaper?
You’re sorry,
I know what 
you do
when you’re 
all alone.
You know 
what I would do
to find a warm thing 
to be caught in.

Anyway 
I wanted to know
if I was alone here.
I wanted a Really
Big Romance.

To clear the image
from my eye, 
It will take a deep breath
It will take a China
It will take a Valium
It will take a truck 
It will take the endurance of a family’s bickering
It will take the language of love
for desire to exit
for something to take its place.

Ami Xherro’s first chapbook, The Unfinished Flame, was published by Swimmers Group in 2017. Her work has appeared in the Hart House Review, Shrapnel, University College Review, Long con, Autodidact, the Poetry Institute of Canada’s annual anthology. She also makes sound poetry with the Toronto Experimental Translation Collective. We seek to renegotiate relationships within and across languages and media using homophonics and public transcription practices.
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HISTORY AS AN OBSOLETE GLOBE

2/19/2023

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Joseph Meads
For instance:
a pack 
of 10,000 
wild dogs
(that’s 40,000
canine teeth)

surrounds us –
& you bow 
your head
forward, 
toward
my right ear –
to whisper, 
like a ghost
or the ghost 
of a just felled tree:
I too am colorblind...  träume ich noch en Deutsch.

Joseph Lee Meads is a diagnosed schizophrenic and currently an MA student in the Program for Writers at the University of Illinois at Chicago. He has previously been published in Columbia Poetry Review, Chicago Literati, Lover's Eye Press and elsewhere. He posts images of his muted television onto Instagram: @joseph.lee.m
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ghost exchange

2/19/2023

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Ann Tweedy
because i can offer you nothing
i aspire to ask nothing of you
is it a bargain we are stuck in
or its absence
the language thick on us

now we are mimes or those live statues
in San Francisco, grey grease paint,
tiny robotic movements--
no--child stars, trapped 
in performance

Ann Tweedy's first full-length book, The Body's Alphabet, was published by Headmistress Press in 2016. It earned a Bisexual Book Award in Poetry and was also a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award and for a Golden Crown Literary Society Award. Ann also has published three chapbooks, the first of which was reissued by Seven Kitchens Press in April 2020. Her latest chapbook, A Registry of Survival, was published by Last Word Press in December 2020. Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Literary Mama, Clackamas Literary Review, and elsewhere, and she has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes and two Best of the Net Awards. A law professor by day, Ann has devoted her career to serving Native Tribes. In 2020, she moved from Washington State to South Dakota to join the faculty at University of South Dakota School of Law. Read more about her at www.anntweedy.com.
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My Body is Made of Wǒmen

2/19/2023

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Kitty Chu
I
I am sick with nausea
but
I hunger for meals 
to fill my mouth with guilt
            because I do not know
how to metabolize gratitude 
served as white rice
in porcelain palms
I bring to my tongue.
I am foreigner
half-familiar with tongues
                                         home to 
                                        Mom + Dad
            who were born
            in Taishan but came to the 
                                                    United States to pull money and
                                       Mom pulled thread 
                          into fabric and fabric was pulled 
                                           onto bodies; she made clothes
and waited for Dad to come home
while Dad waited tables—     a busy
busboy
                        until 11 
                    pm, way past 6 when we ate,
                   everyone but
Dad.

Mom cooked and
home smelled like labor
wafting through the rooms,
the scent of steamed and stir-fried money:
beef and corn 
with salt beads:
Dad’s crystallized sweat
to remind us at 6 
we were eating his labor
while he lost 
family time 
shifts until 11 
but we were asleep
our stomachs full     and uneasy

II
I am sick with a fever
living between Mom        &    me 
after her words slashed 
my fresh flesh I cleanse
with saline 
tonight when
big sister Sally 
played big brother and
tattletale telephone.

Bottles of Ensure 
sat in the vast vacancy
of the kitchen and 
tonight I needed 
an (    ) bottle    
      emptied 
into the sink.
I poured $$$ down
the drain instead of
downing it
for no reason
but to have an    
empty bottle. 

Mom moves → 
past the hallway
    past the restroom
            past the closed closet door
where she picks up a metal rod
moves → 
past the bedroom door
and finds my body folded
in thirds with my head praying
to my knees.

She swings an X
and my back raises its skin
to yell but I shush
bow my tongue
saying $orry.

III
it’s been cold here
since spring of 2005
when a baby bloomed
in the belly of our mom 
who birthed and named
my sister/ chicken/ baobuoy/ a treasure 
with her skin so golden 
it harvests youth from the sun 
kept in her eyes that 
slant up towards the sky 
to smile as the new favorite.
I am a child 
five years older
forgotten five years later
after the arrival of the sun
that keeps me cold. 

IV
Coughs in my body 
         store generations of souls 
                  mapped out by my nose lips 
Taishanese loy koy:
I ask them to come be with me,
with Mom and Dad
whose mother tongues
speak the land of their first home
                                in Taishan where I am foreigner because
          I dress in cotton t-shirts from H&M
          and qipaos only on holidays 
when I eat the same food
celebrate the same harvesting    of rice and wheat
under the same moon        that heavenly ages
to a crescent shining     
on half my face.
In same sky of sim sim stars,
my ancestors hum softly in my blood
thicker than red twine knotted and burnt
around our necks to honor the zodiacs 
  we fall under
         as I wonder where my body first began.

Kitty Chu is an Asian American writer living in the valley of Southern California. She is graduating from the University of California, Riverside with a Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing. Her works have been featured in Entropy Magazine and Matchbox Magazine, and she has received the William Willis Poetry Prize and the UC Riverside Chancellor’s Award. Outside of writing, Kitty enjoys birdwatching (especially ducks and pelicans!), going on sunset walks, and making caffeine-kicking coffee! You can keep up with her on her Instagram page, @kittyychuu.
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missoula

2/19/2023

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Yetta Rose Stein
It is spring 
with the lilac stench 
reaching for me. 
I barter with the gods 
for rain. 
I missed you and am wondering: 
were you in town last weekend 
for the wedding on Saturday 
and the funeral on Sunday? 
The father of the bride 
stood in front of everyone, 
begged the gods for a moment of silence. 
Our Alberton wind blew in a fierce gentleness 
knocking down the altar, 
like a sign of 
something alive. 
It is spring with 
everybody dying 
in the summer. 
I missed you and the way 
you hate good things 
like rain and weddings. 
Do you still visit that park? 
The one where we thought 
we might be in love? 
Like a sign of something alive? 
It is spring and there are 
yard sales on every other block. 
Everybody is dying and everything is for sale. 
Where do you go to pray, 
in this town with as many churches as bars. 
It’s raining now, 
starting to rain, 
I see god in the old buildings
that still stand. 
The lilac stench wilting, 
leaving me behind. 
I see god, 
her lightswitch between 
matrimony and martyrdom, 
flipping, easily. 
I pray these hills are green 
come August.

Yetta Rose Stein is a graduate of Hellgate High School. She lives in Livingston, Montana. She spends her free time trying to embrace the wind. You can follow her first drafts at @yettaworldpeace on Instagram.
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To the tiger (for aaron)

2/19/2023

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Oswaldo Vargas
I got far in the pilgrimage
toward the equator 
that browned you.

The next one will finish it
and pose for pictures.

He too will count the keloids 
on your back, big and small, 
like blessings. 

Oswaldo Vargas is a former farmworker, a graduate from the University of California, Davis and a 2021 Undocupoets Fellow. Anthology features include Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color and Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century. His work can also be seen in The Louisville Review, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Huizache, West Trade Review, Narrative (upcoming) and the Green Mountains Review tribute issue to former U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera (among others). He lives and dreams in Sacramento, California.  
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Noble House of Salazar

2/19/2023

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Oswaldo Vargas

He gets me a beer

halfway through it,
I unravel.


mistake mistake
ohgodmistake

The waitress asks if I'm ok

how do i say that I hope he knows my weight
before the night is done? 

He can sell my bones when he's done with me
and I'd still ask which one fetched more money

He drops me off
but i still pretend my steps lead up
to his family home

A spot in the hallway,
reserved for the portrait of his bride

mount me on a wall

call me a success.

Oswaldo Vargas is a former farmworker, a graduate from the University of California, Davis and a 2021 Undocupoets Fellow. Anthology features include Nepantla: An Anthology Dedicated to Queer Poets of Color and Puro Chicanx Writers of the 21st Century. His work can also be seen in The Louisville Review, Queen Mob’s Teahouse, Huizache, West Trade Review, Narrative (upcoming) and the Green Mountains Review tribute issue to former U.S. Poet Laureate Juan Felipe Herrera (among others). He lives and dreams in Sacramento, California.
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On Being a Coyote

2/19/2023

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 Laura Anne Whitley
Pros: no one will ever keep you as a pet 
Cons: no one will ever keep you as a pet


On being a haunted house


Pros: nobody will make a home inside of you
Cons: nobody will make a home inside of you

Laura Anne Whitley is a comedian who accidentally became a poet, and is delighted to report they both use the same muscle. Her mission in life is to create mythology, and her favorite form of intimacy is through confession. She finds inspiration in chaos, nostalgia and The Invisible. She hopes that when people connect with her work, they’re not connecting to her, but to a part of themselves. Her work can be found on Instagram @laurabreadkitten.
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Telling our son his dog died

2/19/2023

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Jennifer Cox
We tell our son
The dog died
That she was sick and
Couldn’t get better
We tell him
She isn't coming back

Our son is confused
He doesn't know death
Only smushed a few bugs sometimes
He asks
"She is . . . Somewhere?"

I do not tell him
That she is in the vet's freezer
I do not tell him that soon
She will be cremated

I do not tell him
we will spread her ashes
Over the lake she loved 
and her remnants will settle
On the lily pads and 
mint lining the shore
And will stick, undetected
To the bottoms of our feet
As we come out of the shallows
I do not tell him
That then our feet will carry her
Wherever we go

So I do not tell him that soon
She will be everywhere

Jennifer Cox (she/her) is a poet, lawyer, and mother. Her poetry primarily revolves about motherhood, birth, and the impending climate crisis. She enjoys reading, spending time outdoors, and playing with her children. Her work has previously appeared in the League of Canadian Poets' Poetry Pause and Bywords.ca. She resides in Ottawa with her children and husband.
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Movement

2/19/2023

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Aicha Yassin
A friend once told me about this ritual in Argentina,
Where people get in their cars and travel as far north as they can get.
they stop by small villages on the way, and explore the pristine land,
Some would end up in Venezuela, and in Colombia, the others.
He told me this story as we sat in a small bar in Ramallah.
And I thought to myself, if I were to take a car and do the same
A checkpoint will stop me,
And if I pass the checkpoint,
A border will stop me,
And if I pass the border (miraculously),
I will be stopped by war.

Aicha bint Yusif is a 26-year-old Palestinian living in Haifa.She holds an English literature degree and is currently studying Medicine. She is passionate about poetry, and her works appeared in World Literature Today (NYC) and Rusted Radishes (American University of Beirut). She also likes yoga, working in the land, and making crafts. 
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Don't raise your rifle

2/19/2023

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Anthony Negrón
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy,
It will change the way you see.
Don’t take aim, he’s just a child
And this desert belongs to him.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy,
the future is at stake. Yours and his
Are intertwined, so leave your arms
At your side.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy;
His friends want to live as well.
The sand has drunk it’s fill
Of blood, it does not need theirs too.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy, 
Let their laugh-song carry on.
They do not wish to take your life;
Your instinct led you astray. Your heat-dreams
Have changed even children into horrors;
The price is too high and 
rising still.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy;
He’s a child like you were once.
If you can both grow to be good men
This war may end one day.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy,
You’ll forever view him through iron sights.
The fear and violence in your heart
Will become a feast for consuming regret;
Making every dark corner remember
Your intent, and take
Aim back at you.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy, 
you can become human again.
The hate that the desert taught you has
Not reached permanence.
Don’t you raise your rifle, boy;
There is no bomb on his chest. It is filled
With joy and wonder that you must
Let go on.
Oh, boy, you raised your rifle;
committed to the sin. The sun has risen
on your fear and set
On the child’s hope.
Now that you’ve raised your rifle, boy,
The memory will haunt you as a man.
Tear your dreams to bloody death
and drown you in shaming sweat.
You raised your rifle and so are doomed
To dread and ruminate; to lie and rot, and wander
Lost while forever taking aim.
You raised your rifle, boy, 
And, though you both survived-
The price was too high and
The cost is rising still.

Anthony Negron is a Black and Puerto Rican-American poet and disabled Iraq war veteran. He resides in Hampton, Virginia. His poetry is centered around his relationships and processing traumas. He has a BA in English and is currently working on his first poetry collection, Letters To Us. He can be found @shatteredsentimentsva on Instagram. 
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E. Indian RIver

2/19/2023

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Anthony Negrón
I remember the face of my youth;
Its castoff eyes and dry brows,
Clumsy ears
Intent on finding nuance
Within scenes of obfuscate duality
And disorder, blood-
Soaked streets and carports,
Buicks and beat-down Fords
With unnatural holes where
Natural light shone through,
Suggesting miracles like plate-
Glass windows filled with obsolete
Evidence of white deities and
Prophets 
Who never saw Black Death coming?
In a ghetto
Or honeysuckles in spring,
Their sweet centers giving
Me a sense of Aprils in a better world;
Odorous hope like pollen 
To my nostrils
Spent brass clinking and 
Ringing in the alleyway at my feet
As I clamored ignorantly for more-
The ground seemed like such 
A cruel place.
Scattered grass grown beside needle-
Lined cracks in paved sidewalks
Like veins;
Poisonous blood leading
To the field where I played
As I had my first taste
Of malt, a half-empty Double Deuce I 
Chugged and felt warm
Less alone, vomited
On my shoes, found
Kinship in consequence
When I thought that it was love;
The face of my youth all
Red with bloody error, skin soaked
Boiled and fermented,
Habit a process-
I learned how to die on East Indian River
Where all my firsts 
Took root in my blood.

Anthony Negron is a Black and Puerto Rican-American poet and disabled Iraq war veteran. He resides in Hampton, Virginia. His poetry is centered around his relationships and processing traumas. He has a BA in English and is currently working on his first poetry collection, Letters To Us. He can be found @shatteredsentimentsva on Instagram. 
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oh, but what difference does it make--

2/19/2023

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Trishala Vardhan
they could have given me metal mandibles 
and i still would have managed
to make music 
of your name. 

Trishala Vardhan is a 24-year old Dalit Indian who has lived in the lap of language for as long as she can remember. A practicing (not yet publishing) poet, she believes both in the promise of peace, and the penance of its absence. She has currently just completed her masters in English Literature, and is working at the National Institute of Smart Governance in her hometown. Grappling with the grief of the current world order, Trishala is doing her best to be kind to her own disillusionment in a country where both death and dreams are disregarded in equal measure. Poetry is her skein of light in this survival. 
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