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Poem Pictures

To Autumn: Reading Keats in Pandemic Winter

NAILA MOREIRA
I’ve never felt so close to death as in the moment of birthing my baby. A hole into the blackness of the universe seemed to yawn, confronting me with the boundary between nothing and identity, the void from which we yank the stuff of emergent life.

Lolita in the Afterlife book cove

Badge of Honor

SUSAN CHOI
The safety I felt with that older man didn’t surprise me at the time. What shocks me now is that my trust in that hoary scenario didn’t get broken. This was pure luck, as my survival of the car crash was luck. No one sets out to have a car crash with the idea it might do them good.

Hand Writing

Mother’s Tongue

JENNIFER SHYUE
I thought to confirm this fact with my mother. She said, the expressive brows I inherited perplexed: “No, your first language was English.” Yesterday, I asked my mother the question again, at a slant: What was my first word? Her brow bunched. “I don’t remember,” she said.