january poetry roundup

the new decade by hieu minh nguyen

In this order, I ask, first, for water,
which might mean mercy,

which might mean swing by in an hour
& I’ll tell you the rest.

on holding rose water by beyza ozer

But my mother
always brings me the instant coffee my
dede drank before he died. She wraps it
so carefully in a plastic bag from the market
that we go to when Caddebostan feels unreachable.
We don’t talk about that. Or the grief.

ode to sudanese-americans by safia elhillo

i crowd smoky bars alongside ladin
& shadin & majid & linda & nedal
atheel & amir & elkhair & mo & mohammed & mo

& we are forever removing our shoes in each other’s
apartments ashing cigarettes
into the incense burner making tea

with the good dried mint our mothers taught us
to keep in the freezer next to the chili
powder from home making songs & dinner

& jokes in our parents’ accents & i am funniest
when i have two languages to cocktail
when i can say remember & everyone was there

we throw rent parties & project the video
where albabil sing gitar alshoug & i am not
the only one crying not the only one made & remade

by longing the mutation that arabic makes of my english
metallic noises the english makes in my arabic
we ululate at each other’s weddings we ululate at the club

object permanence by hala alyan

There are things I like about heartbreak, too, how it needs
a good soundtrack. The way I catch a man’s gaze on the L
and don’t look away first. Losing something is just revising it.
After this love there will be more love.

after touching you, i think of narcissus drowning by leila chatti

How desire is a thing I might die for. Longing a well,
a long dark throat. Enter any body

of water and you give yourself up
to be swallowed. Even the stones

know that.

the b-sides of the golden record, track five: "post traumatic stress disorder" by sumita chakraborty

Carry each fragment, shard, and piece into this light. Do not clean the parts. Arrange them into a shape resembling the original shape of the mirror.

reciprocity is a two-way street by momtaza mehri

History is the hammer. You are the nail.
In another dream, your mother is barefoot and young,
wearing a scarf the colour of a wound. By Fontana del Moro, a Moor adrift
on a conch shell leans over her shoulder,
as she unpeels her wet dress from her legs.
Unmoored, she laughs at this new country calling itself an old one.

Diaspora is witnessing a murder without getting blood on your shirt.
Your body is the evidence of its absence.

You only know love like this,
an interpretation you can’t outrun.
A footnote haunting the page.

notes: there were many i flagged but these were the ones that still held up even on a reread. all poems here are from poetry foundation & poets;org subscription