An open call for journalism on Asian immigrant and Muslim communities
Our clocks simply don’t chime the same tune
Ammā is perched on the doormat, / greasing her heels with Tiger Balm Red.
Meanwhile, I relinquish my authority on feeling. / Meanwhile, love is making its way to me.
Do we need a man? I want to ask her, but her eyes are bright like poppies in summer heat.
tangled gold necklaces knotted/ with grief, chains my mother will not break.
I call myself “child” now like |/ ghost who calls itself alive.
Song Từ Thức vốn tính hay rượu, thích đàn, ham thơ, mến cảnh. |
His passions: music, poetry, and beautiful landscapes.
time / slips off my softened skin / and I grow wings.
Recalling the promise of anticolonial internationalism
Most schools have cut their French programs,/ but teaching it here sparkles.
Our clocks simply don’t chime the same tune
Song Từ Thức vốn tính hay rượu, thích đàn, ham thơ, mến cảnh. |
His passions: music, poetry, and beautiful landscapes.
Ammā is perched on the doormat, / greasing her heels with Tiger Balm Red.
Meanwhile, I relinquish my authority on feeling. / Meanwhile, love is making its way to me.
time / slips off my softened skin / and I grow wings.
Recalling the promise of anticolonial internationalism
Do we need a man? I want to ask her, but her eyes are bright like poppies in summer heat.
tangled gold necklaces knotted/ with grief, chains my mother will not break.
I call myself “child” now like |/ ghost who calls itself alive.
Most schools have cut their French programs,/ but teaching it here sparkles.