'Mother Tongue', Peyvand Sadeghian Before I learnt “How are you?”, there was “Korek?” That once enthusiastic snarl now leaves me choking....

We are wanting in the dark lights, all hunched, All live, writing in our book With a tethered sigh  And wanting a rest, but loving...

My mind, a landfill that chokes on sorrow, crafts a noose out of a bespoke eclipse; chews pain, reluctant to spit or swallow, for either...

The Age of Discord The refugee’s home is my home But it only became my home when the refugee thanked me for it This is the Age of...

In the Smoking Area Cristina Rizzo “You ok?” He scares me. His voice is hugged by the cushioned music from inside the club. My ears feel...

To be the moon is what he wanted me to be. round serene A face...

At the bottom of the garden the little girl plays. It is spring and the sun is warm in this spot, Filtered through the gaps in the blue...

Nothing Beautiful There is nothing beautiful to say by it, About it, there is nothing gold. The source of my heart, and yet The black...

LED Laser beams of Love and Protection. Ah, I see. I fear You’re Becoming Ungrateful. That’s not how You repay my love. Try, ‘yes!...

The Auld Ways There’s mair value than yous could ever imagine in the auld ways. And they're crumbling awa Gui tricky to catch, But ye’ve...

I like to plant seeds in the barren lands of the Sierra, where I walk with a bucket and watch the shining eyes of the buckles on my...

Your petrol powered boast is trumped by the muscle moved machine, its mechanical cleverness is humble and sporting. It does not growl nor...

I can't bear to throw out the dead flowers: When I dropped the bunch in the compost this morning, the one still alive fell from the group...

a horse rolls its eyes in me nervous whites reflecting windows held ajar by splintered blocks eyelash trembling tempting my hunger...

Casas de nación Casa de palabras: mátame. Casa de imágenes: acógeme. En este mundo de casa y casas, ¿dónde quedó la casa de aquél? ¿Qué...

A poem— even with the prettiest words i couldn’t describe you the way you should be. Feeling Blue— I want words to come out of my mouth...

Breakfast at Nine Saliva dominates, Her salt washed skin brushes the beads of bubbles Glistening between my hairs, She moans — the type...

Portrait paintings were Frida Kahlo's pain-things. Her labours of love hang as trophies of control and mocking devotion: desperate...

Ah, a day to myself. This morning, I spread To the sides of my bed With fingers and toes Like a starfish. I made pancakes, just three:...

Fragility Is Not knowing Who I am. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know where the cement was mixed and Who formed the Bricks That were...