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they hang our bodies
  art exhibition: west bank lovers
we burn the flag for settlers, how masochistic
  THE PALESTINIAN: a time-turner. we revert
into seas, salt preserving our bodies; souls hanging:
  a speculative piece. they press their noses against our windows
what a view, two Palestinians fucking.

  performance piece: THE PALESTINIAN WOMAN.
the history of [archived]. spatiality of orchids.
  return of light. I am waiting for you, albi,
to throw the gas at the museum & liberate us. don’t be
  a coward. space cowboy, babe, I dream of the fire.

enough about the olive trees, I want to talk about
  when you drag my hair across the street and proclaim
me as yours. left my body hanging in the window; Maryam never dies.
  let the men see how you marked me. molotovs
and bruised inner-thighs: THE PALESTINIAN MAN.
  I want the violence, crave the fire. I promise, albi, I’m good
at screaming. throat splits land open,
  like a good bitch.

the FUTURE. a SOFT love, the mountains
  kissing hips, loz-skinned and olive-washed hair. isn’t that
what we imagine? no missing skin or the sovereignty of fighter jets.
  if I kiss a boy from Khalil and fuck one from Ramallah, what’s left
for my marriage?
  zawajj, zawajj. married into horror stories, I run
into the groves on fire, I want to burn alive with my land
  how foolish, another dead girl. I grow starved,
you demand my loyalty, I’m loyal to love.
  the moon rises, full, and you call my body fertile,
ready, how tragic you’re not my revolution. tear down
  the museums, unhang me, douse me in water.

fuck your performance piece, albi I have no shame
  if the whole city hears you fucking me, isn’t that what you wanted?
primal, like how they draw us in their museums & exhibitions.
  hymen between your lips, they want to see our blood.
performance piece, you eat me: THE VIRGINITY WA AL NOUR.
  break the stained-glass windows, Shammout to paint us whole
take the exhibition, my body
  stilled on your window, burning.

I asked if you’d make love to me when the war comes bas
  the war is always present, its mouth at the windows
they step on our garden to reach us by foot, habeebi, do
  you hear what I am saying? I am dying
for the violence, I desire the sea. bring me
  to my knees, take the stones, bury the
windows. drag my hair across the shards, I heard
  a rumor you own me. dip me in rose-water, I’ll come out
the blushing bride: WEST BANK LOVERS. I want you
  to unhang me, wash me, bury me. bring the gasoline, babe,
it’s a party. will you touch me in this violence?

  the war doesn’t bother knocking.
how tiring.
  how many of Darwish’s lines will they paint on me? a statement piece,

our bodies contorted in unintelligible letters, what a view!
  you’re a coward in love
with their gaze. I won’t drown
  in the sea like a scorned lover, I want to hear you laugh again
habeebi, albi, I won’t give birth here.
  west bank lovers: all I know are your eyes
let me down from the window, albi.

  I am tired of being owned. let the air cool the children,
the rivers, the churches.
  the glass tangled in my hair & your cock
on exhibition. you said once in secret you love me. I left
  my lips for you to eat, will you leave me so unfulfilled? fool, habeebi,
al nour, al nar; LIBERATION PIECE, west bank lovers: all I know
  are your eyes, my hands, the heat of the explosion



leena aboutaleb is an Egyptian-Palestinian made in between spaces. Currently a graduate student at the George Washington University, she spends her time working in futurisms. She can be virtually located on Instagram at leena.jpeg.
Current Issue
29 Nov 2021

It is perhaps fitting, therefore, that our donor's choice special issue for 2021 is titled—simply—Friendship.
The year before this, the girls at school had called her Little Lila .
Pictures of me that day are kept in the ship’s files, sent back to Earth to be used in my captors’ eventual war crimes tribunals.
Perhaps a new urban system of star navigation is needed
This world, covered in spectral ebullience, was tied together by bows of light
Are you a good witch / or a bad witch? / as if there’s an answer earned, inscribed in bubbles reflecting an inverse crown.
When does the pursuit of pure thought, pure idealism, pure escapism become detrimental?
Wednesday: The Best of World SF, Volume 1, edited by Lavie Tidhar 
Friday: Anti-Life by Vee Tat Lam 
Issue 22 Nov 2021
Issue 15 Nov 2021
By: Madeline Grigg
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Issue 8 Nov 2021
By: Allison Parrish
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Issue 1 Nov 2021
By: Liam Corley
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Podcast read by: Liam Corley
Issue 25 Oct 2021
Strange Horizons
Issue 18 Oct 2021
By: K. Ceres Wright
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Issue 11 Oct 2021
By: Lisabelle Tay
Podcast read by: Kat Kourbeti
Issue 4 Oct 2021
By: Anthony Okpunor
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
Issue 2 Oct 2021
Podcast: Fund Drive 2021 Poetry 
By: Michael Meyerhofer
By: Wale Ayinla
Podcast read by: Michael Meyerhofer
Podcast read by: Ciro Faienza
29 Sep 2021
Opening to fiction submissions for the month of November!
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