Mother’s Day on the Field

by Anannya Uberoi

St. Michael’s pitch is torched with
blots of white and gold, and red and blue
for the boys, kicking far and wide—
the game’s on, and it’s on good,
for there is a curly-haired lad blaring Continue reading

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Under Lockdown

by Josh P. Cohen

Before corona stole my crown,
I was still the king of Prince Street,
with my bag full of books and medicine,
my brow, furrowed only by the hacky,
drip-drop cough that always lingers
in the winter months and nags
at the back of my throat ‘til spring— Continue reading

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Interregnum

by Rebecca Bihn-Wallace

I am an observer. I most likely can’t tell you what I ate for breakfast this morning, nor can I keep track of my belongings or change the oil on a car or explain the stock market in any real sense, but I remember the interior of every house I’ve lived in, and could probably even tell you how the  furniture was arranged. I have been cursed with the curious combination of operating in two worlds: the real world, which is often loud and confusing and leaves me at times baffled; and the imagined world, the life of the mind, which is soothing but not always the best place to be. That is to say, I am a writer. Because of this, I wasn’t aware of my need for regular human contact until the pandemic hit. It came upon slowly, this pandemic, or I think it did; now when I look at the timeline of events, I think, Weeks, not months.  Weeks for my state to go on lockdown, weeks for my university to close, weeks for shelter in place to begin. Months for people to rebel, months for the country to undergo another racial paroxysm. Continue reading

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Quilted Heritage

by Susan J. Wurtzburg

Old patched quilts hanging over a ladder in a sun-filled corner of the bedroom.
The most colorful one, perhaps a hundred years old, is surprisingly intact.
Its white background interspersed with patterned fabric vibrantly abloom,
delicately repaired by my grandmother, whose tiny stitches can be tracked.
Sewn by hand, a dying skill, women gifting their eyesight to a family’s warmth.
In this manner, heavy cotton quilts map the genealogy of relationships in the north. Continue reading

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The Other Indians

by Julieta Vitullo

With the dining room now closed, Nabil joined the last guests at their table while they dipped cold spoonfuls of rice in the leftover curries. They were a red-headed young man in a tie-dye shirt, and two blondes who looked like sisters. An odd lamp sat on the shelf above their table. Earlier that night, the young man had asked Nabil if there was a story behind it. Nabil had said to wait until closing. Now, the few sounds that remained from the East Village roar faded into the vibrations of a sitar coming from the dining room stereo. It was time.  Continue reading

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