Nonfiction
Living in New Orleans, oftentimes reality feels like fantasy. Not a cookie- cutter kind of…
In Islam, Mecca is a fixed place you travel to—a physical pilgrimage to the house…
I am teaching myself translation. Not to translate, but to better understand what it means…
Sometimes I think I should call my mother less often because she’s going to die. She’s neither well nor unwell, but statistically speaking, I’m not wrong to worry.
Kajol lines swept under an angled eye in a singular motion: inherited muscle memory. Deep inhales stop working for childbirth and fear. Pain sneaks in.
The fractures, herniation, and slippages somehow become tolerable, managed through an elaborate system of forgetting and excusing and stores of fortitude that might otherwise be dedicated to breaking that which breaks us.
I grew up believing that I belonged to a family of birds. When your family…