By Elizabeth Shanaz

Buy this shit, I need to eat and you have some extra

Y’all not up on me

200 dead, a bomb on a tent?

Look, Taylor Swift is saving the economy,

            basically

Have you multiplied your multiple streams of income?

It’s Bisan. She’s still alive

Buy this shit, it will come in a sleeve that smells like fish

Here’s what I eat in a day to fill all the various voids

            God, there’s so many. Giggles.

Has anyone seen Motaz?

Buy this shit, you can always make more money

Golden balloons, a skin tight dress

            She looks good if that’s really her age

            Mess yourself with self-loathing, gotta go buy some shit

7 babies dead, tubes still in their noses, bombs have blades now?

Isn’t this so funny? Here’s some more.

            Don’t cry just laugh

            Laugh so hard you cry

I know your family is being killed but I need my abortions

            Lesser of two evils, silly goose.

Bombs dropped from jets, fell on top of a funeral

            We don’t get dignity in death anymore

Buy one get one, but only today so hurry up and

            buy this shit.

Motaz posted a story, thank God

            Oh God, it is the worst thing I’ve ever seen.

Four pics of you in the Caribbean, no cheating!

A Black man was lynched last night

            Silly goose.

Elizabeth Shanaz’s writing has appeared in Huffington Post, Playboy, Pree Lit, and SAADA. Her books include TRAUMA: A Collection of Short Stories (Shanti Arts 2017), Nothing You Could Do (Bruk Out Media 2020), and Waiting for a Name (Shanti Arts 2023). She is based in New York.

Is where I’ll wait for you

& the local Spiderman. I smoke double

apple hookah and I don’t eat

the eclair I want to eat. It’s been

zero years since the warzone.

Is that good enough? If not—

I’ll hold on longer.

Will you check the menu

before you come? Tripadvisor

must have a glitch—none

of the reviews are updated

& there’s a funky orange banner

atop the restaurant name—Travel

Notice. Maybe wait a minute

or two, refresh your page.

I’ll eat that eclair in the meantime,

write a poem about the strange

noises I’ve been hearing since

my flight landed. Matter of fact,

the flight itself was uncanny—funereal

stares & no baby made fickle

by changes in air pressure. Anyway—

I’ll hold on longer.

I’ll wait a smoke session’s

worth, another eclair,

a cat call or two.

I’ll wait a military resurgence,

a delay-action bomb,

a limb severed from its cartilage.

If you don’t come tonight,

have the waiter send your govt ID

to the table by the palm tree,

I’ll cross-reference your knee.

Turn my face toward the street.

Watch

the incessant crowd of bodies,

the tanks, a bit too heavy-handed,

trampling their corpses.

Around the corner, a boy awaits his demise

and like him—

I’ll hold on longer.

Shams Alkamil is a Sudanese Muslim poet. Her writing has appeared in Mizna, Kalahari Review, The Ana, and more. Her work has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes.

(Three poems from the travels of the poet)

PULWAMA VALLEY, KASHMIR

A broken

PA system

at the mosque

The imam

calls to prayer.

Standing outside by the brook,

voice loud enough
    for only a few houses.

A few men gather.

Plenty of space for everyone.

The birds sing.

The water flows.

The imam calls me to the Lord.

PUTNEY, LONDON

I am so in Great Britain

On the flight,

I watched the Imitation Game.

Then in the morning,

I had tea and crumpets.

Next, I’m going to

put on a Polo neck.

And be a shadow

of my glorious past.

AL-ANDALUS, SPAIN

Oh rational beings, take heed.

The opportunity cost of the world is Paradise.

Leaving this world

without tasting the sweetness of faith is like leaving Mecca

without once glancing at the Kaaba.

Oh buyer in the bazaar of love.

How would you like to set your sights on the finest of jewels?

And sip the sweetest of nectars whose seal is musk.

Why would you beg

for bowls of water,

when the gushing fountain

is within arms reach?

Saif Ali is an interdisciplinary scientist and performing artist. He has performed at venues worldwide including the BRAVA theatre, the Bayfront theatre and the Eureka theatre in San Francisco, the Stein Auditorium in New Delhi, Mubai Art Room in Mumbai and the Kochi-Muziris Biennale art festival in Kochi, Kerala, India. 

In an alternate dimension

where my luck has pruned to wretched

it is my father who,

sleepless for days,

is crashing fingernails against felled stone

gathering my pieces into a thing fashioned into a bag.

Lifting it to the sky,

daring the world to say they didn’t see.

Affirming my personhood.

Handing me to Allah himself.

In the fable of another world

where my luck has husked to shelling,

no parent alive to find me.

it is another girl’s father who,

delirious, eyes amphibious lenses of blood,

pulls the Excalibur of my faint breath from stone.

lifts me to the sky while standing on a

mountain of ruin,

of all of our ruin,

announcing to the world that my heart beats.

Declaring that Allah is the greatest.

Elizabeth Shanaz is a poet and lawyer based in New York. Her books include TRAUMA: A Collection of Short Stories (Shanti Arts 2017), Nothing You Could Do (Bruk Out Media 2020), and Waiting for a Name (Shanti Arts 2023). 

1

my thumbnails

are exhausted. carrying

a wanderer for too long.

let the wanderer wander no more.

quietude. silence – go to the masjid.

your sister is here to bid silence.

2

with right hand stretched out

collecting hand-fan’s air

– do not overburden

the wandering.

the body is garnished.

let the wanderer invade.

now is the time. the time has come.

3

dear son, i am not dying  –

she whispered

i am transmuting.

throw supplications towards our lord in odd hours.

i am not leaving you

she muttered

your sister will catch my shy soul

4

recollecting me

in the whirlpool –

a bird will sing.

do not howl. you’re not wolf.

you’re a man. my son –

the voice echoing in my head during rukuh during sujud during takbeers

5

i’d sprinkle air. sprinkle air –

on the feet of your brother.

he will return. (smile).

do you not want his return?

do you not?

i want to see nana –

call your dad –

6

as i escape my body

i watch you escape yours,

dear son. collect yourself from the wind.

what we feel is not for sale

to escape our bodies is to enjoy the voyage.

for now, do not escape yourself when i do

i will always visit to tell you things

Odu Ode is a Nigerian poet who explore nature, travels and love; both the love that mend and the love that breaks. He is a fellow of The Imodoye Writers Residency and an award winning poet.

White touching pink, spotted with green
and red and yellow, dark blue twisted
with gray, wrapped in ribbons of marigold.

Displayed in the center of town, eyes
ooh and aah as they pass by, the shades
shouting in the day and shining in the night
inviting admiration, pride and power.

I stop and stare into its eye and
it looks back and smiles, mouthing envy,
lust and idolatry – a focus of unfocus.

What if at this moment my soul is ripped
from my flesh and placed in front of a mirror?
What would I see? A demon in a coat of color
or the handsome man I pretend to be?

Adil Musabji studied electrical engineering and law and currently works as a patent attorney in Chicagoland. His poems are published or forthcoming in the Layla Journal, the Rose-Hulman Quarterly, Rising Phoenix Review, and others. 

^aI texted Jibreel 

And he didn’t respond 

I wanted him to know the need 

To cleanse our blinding Chicago flaws 

while not pushing out all that is stainless 

Instead, I spoke with my mother on our daily call 

Married by your twenties, divorced by your thirties 

When did the tree fall? 

A silent tethered demise 

I try to climb and, 

Hang on. 

^bInna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un 

Please speak English, it’s simple and ugly 

I struggle to muster up  

The cough syrup mixture of my feelings 

Rain, screams, tears, and laughter make 

The best contemporary concoction  

I learned to keep quiet after 

you said, 

I just don’t have the money 

Ameerah Brown is a Chicagoland native. Her work has been published in The Opal, Violet Margin, and The Glass Mountain. 

Can you hear them?

The prophets are leaving.

They have had enough.

The mountains no longer go to them,

no sea is churned, while the sky hides its moon

and the stars are too blurry to read.

The earth lays desolate like a dead turtle on its back.

Not a leaf, not a whisper of wind remains,

there is nothing left to measure or to paint.

Dissonance fills every cavity, even the husks of wheat.

It no longer rains, and no one understands that it is because alchemy is taught no more.

The prophets are leaving.

Left behind are the screamers.

Absolute love languishes untouched.

They confined it to a dreary definition reducing the One to oneself.

Now Rumi is read obtrusively by myopic egos too scared to dive into the sea

– eight hundred years of wisdom discarded.

The prophets are gone. I heard their steps.

They left in the middle of the night, only the poets were awake.

After they left, I read Rumi.

His book of poetry and I burst into flames.

Kenza Saadi Elmandjra worked in conflict zones for many years as a humanitarian worker. After seeing so much hurt, she now turned to beauty teaching art history and writing poetry. A dual Moroccan-Mexican citizen, she now lives in Morocco. 

I wonder what words taste like when they are still
tucked inside our tongues, buried in our chests, simmering inside our souls
what if words were swallowed whole by the sea, deep within the belly of Jonah’s whale

what gems could bubble up, if we were only to exhale

Raidah Shah Idil earned her BA in English and BSc in Psychology from the University of New South Wales. She is based in PJ, Malaysia.