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You might call us
cyborgs but
our augmentation
is mostly

flesh, double
eyelids for the desert
dust, lizard
skin for moisture

harvests. In
your stories
we are the knife
sharpeners, the children

eaters, monsters
who pluck our own dead
for organs, leave
our burial grounds

empty egg
shells. We chose
evolution in our own
timeline. Editing

our bodies
with our siblings’
bodies, opening
ourselves sieved

throats to breathe
new air.



Nisa Malli is a writer and researcher, born in Winnipeg and currently living in Toronto. She holds a BFA in Writing from the University of Victoria and has completed residencies at the Banff Centre and Artscape Gibraltar Point. Her first chapbook, Remitting, was released by Baseline Press in Fall 2019.
Current Issue
21 Sep 2022

There is little more inspirational than a writer who devotes her talents to the work of others.
I was twelve when my mother was born. Twelve or thereabouts. If I’d been older, I could have said things like I never wanted to be a daughter; I don’t have a filial bone in my body. Relatives could have tilted their heads at me, insisting I’d change my mind. But I was twelve so I said nothing. I had no relatives.
a few miles from the fallout zone. / You double-check the index card
Unripe morning / cut open too soon
Issue 12 Sep 2022
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By: Cat T.
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Strange Horizons
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