Poetry

the misty layer bears no forethought / of sorrow. it hovers over the / clearing and the stream, just as the / yawn of daylight scatters over / vines and fans of leaves.

Kindle our fury, keep us bubbling / in a wok of absurdity for too long / and nothing will astonish us anymore.

Like a loaf of bread in a birdcage you chase me and I run / like a sheet of beeswax rolled into a candle.

In the house that he built as / the 60s were turning I / find myself standing where I was / once a smart alec kid going / places who sort of looked down / on her parents who wanted the / life reached by climbing a stair / that began somewhere else

Child of Reagan, what if the Russian boogeyman / is my blood?

when I grow up I will be God / of Cooking, grow / up will be Saint of Gambling / be Tricks Expert, tough

By Nicholas Wong

Some people love like they believe the romantic / folklore about the moon, but they love too literally / from inside a spacesuit.

By Cheng Tim Tim

There are so many ways of breaking.

By Tammy Lai-Ming Ho

My mother’s eyes are dry but tears / sometimes find their way there. / The woman selling dead seafood keeps / wetting the lobsters with ice water / near the shore where tourists cheer and wave.

By Noeme Grace C. Tabor-Farjani

Memories are jumping out of the baggage. I have not even arrived yet nor have I left.