BY REAGAN LEThe Invisible Borders Between Generations, Faith and Technology. Taken at St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City.
0 Comments
To Parent Two Tell her she came from royalty, born in gold and red Tell her she was spoon fed honey Tell her she bathed in a porcelain tub adorned with flowers Tell her she dressed in silk and jade Tell her she was smothered with love and affection because I don’t want her to know that the one child policy worked against her the day she entered this world that she came from a woman that was waiting for a boy and couldn’t support anything less that the blood wasn’t even washed off when she was dropped off on the street that no one cared until her cries in the middle of the night irritated someone that the cloth diapers gave her rashes because they weren’t clean that she wasn’t important enough to properly tend to the cut on her head that she lay on the ground day and night because no one was there to hold her - Parent One BY MIA FRIEDMANBY NATHAN YUJI STEWARTThe anonymity of the Internet is tearing down civil discourse and empathy. As the years go on, online communities have become fully engulfed by the flame wars that have been raging silently for decades.
See more at nathanyujistewart.myportfolio.com Their nose is too large, too flat This one’s eyes look like their squinting, too slanted, too small Their skin is too yellow, too dark Hair is too straight, too black, too plain They don’t sound right either, too much of an accent Won’t even try to pronounce this one’s name Take notes This is what a real East Asian looks like A little button nose Wide ocean eyes Pale skin, like porcelain Golden flowing locks An accent similar to mine A proper English name It’s whitewashing It’s cultural appropriation It’s not important It doesn’t hurt anyone BY MIA FRIEDMAN1. In visions of desert haze and winds whipping cloudy dust. briefly, an image coheres a memory (paradoxically) distant and near inscribed on expanding silken sand a veil shimmering in waterfall motion I hold on to these fragments I keep them deep inside me I patiently wait to hear you again (over the lulling din of) to see you again (waves meeting) to breathe you again (in the salty air) 2. Amma, abba English constricts and Urdu fails me. How do I talk, about my body, my love, my gender? I am afraid of coming back home I am afraid you will not understand BY KEENU MAUSAMBIThese are postcards I have created to places and people that have created me, shaped me, nurtured me and exist as a fundamental part of my identity. These postcards are accompanied by short poems.
|
READ ONSubmissions to the anthology are collected here. Submissions are organized by theme and term. Categories
All
Archives |