March is a month packed with Southern gothics, Partition diaries, postcards from the future, and books that re-map the universe.
The floor broke apart / the tasbeeh into ninety / nine beady reflections / and my mother is still / able to fake a surprise / when she can’t locate / them all.
I keep the butts of my clove cigarettes in a candy tin. I pound it shut, hide it away. So it stays a secret.
I remember exactly where I was when I found out Ren Hang killed himself.
Bob Dylan in China, womanhood beyond identity politics, and toughing it out in Cairo.