This must be the first harvest from our acreage: our young vineyard singing, the plastic, ribbed grow tubes that make little greenhouses for each of the young grape plants catching wind and, like a throat and its vocal chords, producing a note.

A Nigerian Attempts Therapy

I am a Nigerian woman, plagued by Nigerian womanly problems. When I moved to America for graduate school last summer, I believed this new country would shield me from those nagging afflictions.

In My Head

You are twelve years old and your mind is like a game of hot potato. Your thoughts are quick and jerky, and you need to get past them before you get burned.

Carrying History

I am a child of the Iranian revolution. In 1983, my mother gave birth to me in Evin Prison, one of Iran’s most notorious jails. 


Mallika Sekhar April 2020 The ward doctor rang me late in the night to say…

In Between Time

Pain made me a precocious student of time, each middle ear infection a new lesson on the uncatchable instant.

Drawing Blood

I spent a lot of time thinking about blood during my training years—hoping I could get enough of it, wondering which vein would yield the best supply of it, wishing the patients had more of it, calling the blood bank for a bag of it.

The Father Shift

I was twenty-three years old the first time I saw my father wearing a dress.

Motherhood Requiem

Nadia Ghent One afternoon, after my mother had fallen ill for the fourth or fifth…