I emerged a tether / -less, violent hiss // of becoming, staring winter / straight in the mouth.

By Krysta Lee Frost
Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Reportage

An Oral History of New York’s Arab and Muslim Community After 9/11

Interviews

“I feel like my writing is always either at a micro-cellular level or a drone level. There’s this constant cycle between being way too close and things feeling surreal, or pulled way out and things also feeling a little surreal.”

Fiction

I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.

Poetry

You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied

Interviews

“What people say about the patriarchy hurting men is true. Men benefit from it, but it also hurts them.”

Essays

Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation

Essays

Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.

Interviews

“What debts—monetary, emotional, filial—did my parents have that I’ve inherited?”

Interviews

“I wanted to turn to actual living language—and reveal, through poetry, the contradictions or erasures or sometimes comic possibilities imposed by different texts.”

Poetry

after 9/11 / cold silver stretches / across a slate gray table / a room tucked in an airport terminal / you’ve never heard of.

Fiction

What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.

Poetry

But a summer that begins must end. / Soon, the rains are called.

Reportage

India Home offers South Asian seniors a place to be themselves

Poetry

Drink it all, / dredge the bottom for sunk honey

Poetry

The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven. 

Fiction

When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.

Poetry

Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.

Poetry

Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure

Essays

There is a name for every kind of violence.

Reportage

An Oral History of New York’s Arab and Muslim Community After 9/11

Fiction

What kind of exhibit on revolutionaries would it be without a living Palestinian? The rub of course is there are so few of you.

Interviews

“I feel like my writing is always either at a micro-cellular level or a drone level. There’s this constant cycle between being way too close and things feeling surreal, or pulled way out and things also feeling a little surreal.”

Poetry

But a summer that begins must end. / Soon, the rains are called.

Fiction

I turned around to check whether the llama was still there. There he was, as fluffy and clueless as before, lashes waving as he sat on a tattered red mat thrown on the aisle.

Reportage

India Home offers South Asian seniors a place to be themselves

Poetry

You desire a final frame / that suits and comforts, / a framing that supersedes / a death denied

Poetry

Drink it all, / dredge the bottom for sunk honey

Interviews

“What people say about the patriarchy hurting men is true. Men benefit from it, but it also hurts them.”

Poetry

The other night my love turned his body to mine. This life, he said, is my heaven. 

Essays

Feminist organizers and writers reflect about what we have learned from one another about care, community, and survival in continuing to build solidarities towards collective liberation

Fiction

When she opened her door the lived-in smell burst out like gases from a can: fish sauce and charred meat, mildew and a stronger concentration of the musk he had noticed when he got close enough to her body.

Essays

Women like my mother don’t post their lives online. Often, their stories remain untold and undocumented.

Interviews

“What debts—monetary, emotional, filial—did my parents have that I’ve inherited?”

Poetry

Q: Why the impulse to traverse old habits? / A: I believe in the refusal to explain.

Interviews

“I wanted to turn to actual living language—and reveal, through poetry, the contradictions or erasures or sometimes comic possibilities imposed by different texts.”

Poetry

Grappling with the burden of keeping a legacy alive in the face of occupation and erasure

Poetry

after 9/11 / cold silver stretches / across a slate gray table / a room tucked in an airport terminal / you’ve never heard of.

Essays

There is a name for every kind of violence.