in the absence of wind: stillness of course.
the slowness of the leaves is a reminder
of the importance of scale. of time. scale
of time. the stillness in the branches becomes

a reminder of the limitations of home. a broken
branch in a child’s hand becomes a sword or
a magic wand depending on the bedtime stories

where were we again? the ever present loud

i’ve said it before: it all starts in the eye.
ends with i. there is hope in shame. hope
of change. right now. at this very moment:


Sean Cho A. is a visiting professor of instruction at a Midwestern university.

[Purchase Issue 27 here.]


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Anna and B donned silver ponchos, lost their hands in mitts the size of hams. They adjusted their hoods, shinier, fluffier versions of the tunnel-hoods popular on winter parkas in the 1970s (Anna had a navy blue one, orange inside, from Sears).

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B had turned thirteen that fall, ready to join Anna on a trip that was part research, part treat and adventure, the first time they had left the country together, alone. A few days in Rosario (a university lecture, an interview with a playwright), the long bus to Buenos Aires.

Image of a wooded mountain range with gray clouds in the sky and green grass below.


As a child, I watched horror movie after horror movie. An attempt to make myself brave or to make others think I was. And now, I fear I’m manipulative because how much can a person really change.

Headshot of author Jonë Zhitia.

Nadryw | Feeling Language

I never fled into exile, I was born into exile. My only home is the autobahn between Germany and Kosovo. Dissecting: Austria, Croatia, Serbia, Hungary, Montenegro—depending on which route you take. None of these countries is home to me.