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i was born at twilight
always looking for the hour
when the moon and the sun
share the sky

looking for a home
they can share
against this wedge of darkness

i carry in my side
eve's rib
the forgotten mother
of a drunk tongue
or an angry name

buzzing like a mouthful of moths
or maybe just one
pressed to my wrist

a reminder of mistakes
of fathers already gone
and mothers hiding in their own minds

my nimble fingers
no match for my palms
or the too soft soles
of my feet

a lie written in sunsets
a misstep only at dusk
when the sky bleeds
and the moon sighs
to the metronome
of the long nights

no sense in breaking lines
to fit into my teeth
like a body getting softer
when it should know better

in the dreams of traitors
i watch at night
too sharp to keep
when the sun is
high in the sky

and my fevered brain
and the sweat falling
between my breasts

just a story
without a protagonist
a backdrop for an illusion
too elaborate to ground

an unbroken list
of blurry words
and jagged lines



Rabha Ashry is Egyptian, from Abu Dhabi, and based in Chicago. A New York University Abu Dhabi graduate, she is currently completing an MFA in Writing at School of the Arts Institute of Chicago. She spends a lot of time scribbling short poems in her notebook, smoking menthols, and looking lost. Hearing her name pronounced right makes her happy in a way she can't quite describe, and she speaks to her roommate's cats in Arabic because she knows they speak Arabic too.
Current Issue
22 Apr 2024

We’d been on holiday at the Shoon Sea only three days when the incident occurred. Dr. Gar had been staying there a few months for medical research and had urged me and my friend Shooshooey to visit.
...
Tu enfiles longuement la chemise des murs,/ tout comme d’autres le font avec la chemise de la mort.
The little monster was not born like a human child, yelling with cold and terror as he left his mother’s womb. He had come to life little by little, on the high, three-legged bench. When his eyes had opened, they met the eyes of the broad-shouldered sculptor, watching them tenderly.
Le petit monstre n’était pas né comme un enfant des hommes, criant de froid et de terreur au sortir du ventre maternel. Il avait pris vie peu à peu, sur la haute selle à trois pieds, et quand ses yeux s’étaient ouverts, ils avaient rencontré ceux du sculpteur aux larges épaules, qui le regardaient tendrement.
We're delighted to welcome Nat Paterson to the blog, to tell us more about his translation of Léopold Chauveau's story 'The Little Monster'/ 'Le Petit Monstre', which appears in our April 2024 issue.
For a long time now you’ve put on the shirt of the walls,/just as others might put on a shroud.
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