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She said, i set my love out over an ocean of space
in a ship made of recycled parts, and
if i do and if i don’t miss his dear body
then is that a healthy love?

when you feel a face so close
that it starts to be one feature
in your hands that touch any body—
how do you know if it fits like a glove?

then, She said, you measure your pace,
keep time with quiet hands, not singing hearts.
You will know when: when no body
can shove you off balance—

then you’ve found the place,
thin as a blade with an edge that smarts,
where everybody can feel your face
like a crucial lever, like a restless dove.



Rasha is a queer Palestinian Southerner who grew up between Damascus, Syria and rural Georgia and cut their teeth organizing on the southsides of Atlanta and Chicago. They are a member of Alternate ROOTS, Southerners on New Ground, Justice for Muslims Healing Collective, and the Radius of Arab American Writers (RAWI). Rasha's work has appeared in Mizna, Room, Lambda Literary, and Strange Horizons, and is anthologized in Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler and Halal if You Hear Me. As a community technologist, urban farmer, and once and future beekeeper, Rasha is a geek for science both fiction and fact. You can find them tweeting @rashaabdulhadi.
Current Issue
21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
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