By Mohammad Sharifi

I strike the first line.

On the second line I put your moon

To settle the unripe fever of the words.

On the next line a wolf howls at you.

By Supreet Singh

they don’t tell you that it comes in waves

that it ebbs and flows, this tidal pool of sorrow

By Parabjot Gharyal

White faces, white legs, white.

White everywhere.

Tanning salons, hair extensions, plastic surgery.