By Kimaya Bhuta
the little girl, she sang to the screaming sky, hardly through the rubble,
stars made of bombs, sparklers of salvo, her memory made of dreams.
By Nina Anin
The family at the reunion dinner is a rebrand of bluetooth
White tooth maybe, but it's rotting in a drawer, not telling stories at the river
By Nina Anin
The translator doesn't work. It says my great grandfather was a pirate,
when he was a swordsman/doctor who carried lion heads across the continent