Our lovely daughter is reading a book on magical jellyfish & one on the history of the human world. She is even more kind than her brother though she’s a sore loser. Her brain’s like a falcon, the way it flashes & swoops, how fast
I claim direct descent from those born from the depths of soil not the ones who fell from their thrones. Fatima Siraj is a Liberal Arts student and a part-time facilitator based in Pakistan. She conducts poetry workshops in schools to encourage young students toward
My mother overshares with me transferring scars through stories that do not leave a mark if my listening brings her healing should I scratch her wounds? Fatima Siraj is a Liberal Arts student and a part-time facilitator based in Pakistan. She conducts poetry workshops in
The lady pitching a tent by our apple fields turned out to be the one who was almost your mother. I sensed somehow that there wasn’t yet a mold for which this particular news should reach you so I gathered a few cotton swabs and
when my mother says I am a universe in the shape of a girl it is to say I inherit her chemical tears a moon-sad girl star-blossoms sprout from my eyes perfumed black holes I swallow dark matter
I am at a loss because I am at a doorway and it is both my door and a child. I am here and I am on my grandmother’s lap twenty years ago, and she is singing a dry creekbed, because of course she never
In the morning I come to you like a baby sparrow—my eyes can’t see straight. Where is our son? What does it mean to be a woman or person or bird or bed or falling chunk of sky? When you go, in the heat of the
Antlers half-buried in the mud like a cabin shut deep in the woods that nobody enters a grizzly hibernating within that dream of the salmon who never returns to the drying river a farmer must look away from the harvest the cities are not meant
She snaked down the sky like ibis sweeping the landscape of snow, palpatating on telegraph line. A concentric point of red dared into the susurrus of pale, she grew trust to barrier island beneath, beguiling the steady strums of windsong with her flight. Loose hair frosted the
By the late afternoon, everyone has grown trail weary and lounges in camp chairs reading novels or searching maps for what they’ll find tomorrow, and that’s when I like to go into the trees and find the husks of trunks that will make tonight’s fire.