Dispatches

Two Poems by Erica Ehrenberg

April 1, 2026 Dispatches

By ERICA EHRENBERG

Art by Jonathan Ehrenberg

Two Poems by Heather Bourbeau

March 18, 2026 Dispatches

By HEATHER BOURBEAU

Photo courtesy of the author.

Medicine Lake (Sáttítla Highlands National Monument)

The highway is nearly empty;
the mid-June air still crisp.
There is snow on the roadside,
to the west are fire scars.
If I slowed the car, I might relax into

grief. But I am lost.

Dutch Blitz

March 4, 2026 Dispatches

By CIGAN VALENTINE

Cajon del Maipo, Santiago, Chile

It is Easter weekend in a Catholic majority country. It’s Friday, and it feels like the whole world is counting down and holding its breath, waiting for a miracle they know will always come. Out here, though, Catholicism feels like a relic, a prop in an old mountain town with one main square. Something out of the Wild West, if such existed in Latin America. Old men sit around the square selling handmade tiles, reselling fake name-brand sports gear. A fine layer of dust covers everything.

I/Teh Ran

February 18, 2026 Dispatches

By SARVIN PARVIZ

woman holding a sheet in front of the mountains

Photo courtesy of the author.

Tehran, Diaspora

I moved to the U.S. for a creative writing program with a luggage full of must-haves and gifts, to survive the at-once costs with one paycheck, memorabilia from each friend and close relatives to hold, on days of unbelonging and loss, to feel the connection to the ground back to a place. The largest collection of belongings is in my phone. More than twenty thousand photos of food on the table (always more than one plate), streets of Tehran at night through the car window, wet and bright after rain, harmonious, unlike the dust and chaos of the day. My daisy covered shoes on the curb, friends singing, tapping on the table, hugging, running all the way to the top of a hill. When I moved, the photos became similar, screen shots of Facetime or Zoom calls, us in squares next to each other, our joy breaking out of the frame, heart emojis flying, everyone laughing.

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

February 4, 2026 Dispatches, Poetry

By MARY ANGELINO

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

#giftinspo for Cottagecore Girls

—Dispatch from Santa Clarita, California,
nowhere near a cozy forest cottage, August, 2025

Nose heavenward, ears like capsized canoes,
I unbox a silver-gray rabbit, painted to look

metal and heavy. My new useless
bookend. Plastic. Stiff and unsteady—

I would have missed it on a shelf, out shopping
like people used to do, maybe held its weight

Cape May, midsummer

January 21, 2026 Dispatches

By EVELYN MAGUIRE

Photo by Hannah Stone

Cape May, NJ

Some things we understand before we’ve ever touched them. I swallowed a poppyseed and saw you in my dreams. Summer sweltered. Sweat marked round my ribs, beating with two hearts. Boiled eggs, sharp chives, mayo, cayenne, dill, salt. Summer of salt: we retreat to the seaside of my childhood, rocky and full of my mother’s egg salad.

Danish Dispatch

January 7, 2026 Dispatches

By ALEX BEHM

Copenhagen, Denmark

My grandfather sits in a recliner and watches infomercials on television. It is 2:57 in the afternoon on an American Sunday and a man wearing a cheap suit tries selling him the New King James Version Bible in twelve parts on CD.

I call from Copenhagen where the time is 8:57pm and the sun has already set. An electronic operator speaks words in Danish I cannot decipher before the static spindles through air and across several oceans until my grandfather picks up his landline.

Harmony Presbyterian Church, he says into the phone. This is his greeting. No Hello or Can I help you? He has no caller ID and does this to defend himself against telemarketers. He tells me, If you answer with the name of a church, they are not allowed to sell you anything, and then purses his lips and nods his head one time, each time he says this.

The Ground That Walks

December 17, 2025 Dispatches

By ALAA ALQAISI

Gaza, Palestine

We stepped out with our eyes uncovered.
Gaza kept looking through them—
green tanks asleep on roofs, a stubborn gull,
water heavy with scales at dawn.

Nothing in us chose the hinges to slacken.
The latch turned without our hands.
Papers practiced the border’s breath.
On the bus, the glass held us—
a pond that would not name who stays.

Dispatches from Søgne, Ditmas Park, and Temple

December 3, 2025 Dispatches

By JULIA TOLO

Søgne, Norway, July 8, 2018

Sitting around the white painted wood and metal table
that hosted the best dinners of my childhood
my uncle is sharing
his many theories of the world
the complexities of his thoughts are
reserved for Norwegian, with some words here and there
to keep his English-speaking audience engaged

I don’t translate, don’t want to
repeat those thoughts
in any language

but we have a nice time
there’s a cheesecake with macerated peaches
and mint

the sun is low and through the window to my grandma’s house
the heavy lace curtains are catching the light