Songs of Anisha
“Petals On a Wet Branch,”
by Abigail George
The soul needs some kind of sanctuary.
One day he’ll stop asking
Me out point blank. He’ll stop asking me
To go with him to a poetry
Reading or an open air market, or a concert
Or to listen to jazz then what will
I do. I don’t go with him because of
Something he said. It’s against my
Principles. I am always making
Up all of these excuses. Not to spend
Time with him. Not to be in his
Company. I know we’re just friends.
We could never be more than
That but friends don’t tell each other
That they’re wasting their lives.
I don’t like people. I don’t like crowds.
They wound. They fight. They break
Up to kiss and make up again.
This is what people do in the real world and
My soul wants no part of that.
“Immigrating,”
by Changming Yuan
walking around
around the corner of a back lane
I used to carry my African identity
as carefully as if it were a big piece
of glass, through which I could see
others or myself, only if I chose
to do so, but on a hasty afternoon
I tripped down, and
smashed it into hundreds of
small and sharp pieces; since then
my shredded selfhood has become a big
public nuisance, a traffic hazard
as it glistens glaringly under the sun, cutting
tires or human feet, from time to time
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