A gender transition unites a mother and daughter in this poem by Giovanna Cristina Vivinetto. When I was born my mother gave me an ancient gift, the gift of the mystic Tiresias: to change sex once in my life. Even from my first wails she understood that my growth would be a rebellion to come unstuck from my flesh a fratricidal fight between spirit and skin. An annihilation. So she gave me her clothes, her shoes, her lipstick; she said: “Take these, my son, become what you are if...

A man’s unusual tattoos attract international attention in this short story by R. Joseph Dazo. The first question most of them ask when they see my skin is “Why?” I often respond with a smile. Sometimes, my face turns hot. I can’t figure out if I’m annoyed or embarrassed. When I try to answer, I stutter, unable to finish a phrase so that they’ll understand. My armpits dampen. My forehead sweats. How I want to say to them, “This is art. This has...

Filinto Elísio meditates on the border between existence and nonexistence in this short poem. A cry, at birth, and, then, only silence. Inert stone, atomic, nuclear before life. © Filinto Elísio. Translation © 2020 by Jethro Soutar. All rights reserved.

Horace Silver’s “Song for My Father” inspires childhood dreams and adult reflections in this poem by Filinto Elísio. We talked about “the first man” to walk on the moon. And that the music played on Apollo 11, it turned out, was “Georgia On My Mind,” sung by Ray Charles. Nha Gina, who worked for us as a housemaid, refused to believe, looking up at the moon, that the Americans had finally gotten there. This was an argument she'd picked...

A poet considers anonymity and solidarity in the midst of the COVID-19 outbreak in Italy.   Maria Borio reads "From the Red Desert" in the original Italian. In the red desert I’m a single dot: my size today, a dot without length, width, depth, fallen from the sky’s highest point on an earth filled with silence and suddenly pure. I write to you from the red zone, and here’s the truth: the borders are drawn, the red has filled the space without entry or exit, and...

Content warning: this piece contains descriptions of female circumcision that may be upsetting. Writer Ishraga Mustafa recounts her experience of genital mutilation in this excerpt from her autobiography. Things didn’t stay as the toy boats of my childhood would have wished; unrestrained and free, I used to play with the boys in the street . . . the skies would open and pour down, and we would amuse ourselves to the hilt. The taming began the day I heard them, the women,...

In this memoir/biography hybrid, writer and filmmaker Nadia Kamel describes her mother’s experience as a member of an Egyptian communist cell in the 1940s. As the French communists left the country, they handed me over to an Egyptian cell. The guy in charge of this Egyptian cell—and by extension, me—was someone called Abdelssetar Ettawila. He was a member of the organization’s central committee, not by election and not because he’d earned it, but by rising...

The physical and spiritual worlds meld in this wide-ranging poem by Yasmeen Hameed. I spat out this poem. Go on, lick it with your long tongue. I was patient and changed your name. I swallowed fire And forgot you were an ocean. I was proud of my muddy complexion and sniggered at the color of your blood. I drank my own tears and became dry like the desert. I spent the night awake and did not wait for dawn. I smashed clay lamps and burned my hand scattering their ashes to the seventh...

An abandoned city’s lone inhabitant rages against his surroundings and those who left in this poem by Ciwan Nebî. Only the madman has stayed behind in the city, Barefoot On cold nights Shots can be heard! What does he have to fear? He has no kin, No kingdom but the city. He’ll resort to anything! He calls out to those who have abandoned the city As if they took what’s left of his mind with them, and all his cigarettes! He calls out in the rain, Staring at the...

In two poems, Ciwan Qado reflects on relentless poverty and longs for relief from the worries of adult life. ​I needed to wake up at 3:00 in the morning to make it to work I said to myself, you can't go to work—you haven’t slept Either sleep and don’t go to work Or don't sleep but still don’t go to work. I proceeded with caution Like a marble inching toward the line I opened my eyes. The rain drizzled down. Inside my head, a sound like banging the...

Loneliness proves insurmountable in this haunting poem by Cihan Hesen. I speak to The corpse of a dead poem I speak to The skin of the night I speak to The bare fingernails of my weak hands I speak to The broken mirror in my dark and empty room I speak to Your orderly books I speak to Loneliness I speak to The loneliness of my long shadow But the hush feeling, silence sullen-faced fate reaches my ears I too fall silent in the fire of silence © Cihan Hesen. By arrangement with...

An unwelcome visitor becomes a coveted houseguest in this poem by Voltaire Oyzon.   Voltaire Oyzon reads "Water." Rain, this most ungracious guest, enters your house without bothering to knock very rude he’s all over the place messes up the house soaks the foot rags wets chairs winnowing basket grater firewood sleeping mat the covers even the pillows the wedding picture, my wife’s and mine . . . Three or four days he hangs out in our house. I tell myself, don’t...

Karaoke unites a group of Filipina expats in this short story by Genevieve Asenjo. She arrived as a guest and departed as an accomplice to a crime, after sitting down to a dinner of pinakbet and sinigang with the Kim family. At least, that’s what she tells me in between mouthfuls of peanuts and potato chips. We are at Janga Norebang in Koejong. Listen. One night in this Korean family’s typical apartment in Busan, tap water was gushing from the faucet onto the sink. There...

A juggler’s performance raises philosophical questions in this poem by Mesándel Virtusio Arguelles. Swapping seven balls with his palm, and with air. Precision inhabits the gap between the ball’s trajectory and its anticipated pace at the brink of hesitation— the arc of descent. How does one grasp making sense of timing when to hurl and when to catch?    Is it when one rehearses alone or when one rehearses being alone? Which one holds when there...

In this poem by M. J. Cagumbay Tumamac, a free diver’s connection to the sea endures even as his tribal way of life disappears.   Listen to M. J. Cagumbay Tumamac read "A Planned Brief Documentary on a Teenage Boy in a Badjao Village." also after Jade Mark Capiñanes from his essay “Abal” We will start with the fact you are not impressed by the depth of the Celebes Sea. Since birth, you are tethered to the moon and sun exhorting you to surface and sink. We...

In this short story by Elizabeth Joy Serrano-Quijano, a young girl longs to see the world beyond her rural village. Darkness falls in the afternoon. It’s going to rain again. The carabao and the goats have been herded off to shelter. The newly harvested corn has been covered. The house smells of fuel because our tiny lamp has been lit. Smoke rises from the hearth, a signal that Mama is cooking something. The five of us can’t go out. I want to go out so I can wait for...

In this poem by Enrique Villasis, faith and desire take the shape of a flock of birds. Here is how one is seared by unspoken desire: holy and yellow, Like this scene of a setting sun always ready to melt Over our eyes and chests, and the departing light bringing with it an ache Beneath our lashes. We are often taught to have our eyes closed, to ignore the weight Of our eyelids, to let loose in throbbing want: this is the beginning of every prayer. In the mind, a flock of birds, feathers...

Religious symbolism and threats of violence loom in this impressionistic poem by Marlon Hacla. This body, stuffed with nightmares a nesting ground for hawks, swollen with intractable blues, if only I could solicit a new shape for you, if only you would scintillate like a word. - Flanked in the middle of three sharp cops, a rose of the purest red, the gleaming points of sharp thorns. - Song that begets all songs, haunts the ensuing cult of the carillon. There’s the tolling for...

In this short story by Najwa bin Shatwan, a Daesh attack forces George to flee the Christian cemetery and take refuge among the Muslim dead of Benghazi. It was customary for the dead of Benghazi to visit their families whenever they pleased, sticking their noses into every affair—big or small—and, if a revolution were to break out, they would join its ranks, having no qualms about dying twice over. Such was, without fail, the habit of all the dead in Benghazi: those whose...

In this short play by Wajdi al-Ahdal, the colonel’s wedding night is hijacked by an assassination attempt and a case—or two—of mistaken identity.   Translator’s Note: Wajdi al-Ahdal’s The Colonel's Wedding won first prize for scriptwriting at the Ninth Arab Youth Theatre Festival in Alexandria in 1997. At that time, its central trope—the struggle to consummate, or to avoid consummating, a marriage between two characters who are...