Contributors: Issue 4

Issue 04 Masthead Acknowledgements Letter from the Editor by Chris Prioleau   Fiction Benton, Revisted by Koa Beck Old Maid by Annie Dewitt I Want Some Seafood Mama by Soleil Ho   Poetry In Defense Of Art by Aimee Herman A Common Amnesia by Alex Cuff Sea Psalm by Becca Liu Autoconstrucción & Objet Trouvé by Cristiana Baik Kisekae & Validator by JD Scott Epilogue by Julia Guez Foundation & Determination of Racial Affinity by Kenzie Allen _______ the usual old shoe still lifes in October, birds again & Miniature Odes by Khadijah Queen That Which Scatters and Breaks Apart & Trouble by Ladan Osman Changeling & Damage Path by Mya Green Fruits, 8th grade, freshly emigrated from Mexico by Paco Marquez Kundiman: Hung Justice & The Halo-Halo Men: An Anthem by Patrick Rosal [no subject] by Roberto Montes Mistaken for the Subject of an Obituary Terese Coe Dispatch by Tsitsi Jaji Thread by Victoria Matsui Not the Pine Nuts by Victoria McArtor 3 Poems by Shal Nirvanus   Non-Fiction In the Waiting Line by Gyasi Bing nation building/women’s political identity: the border’s apocalyptic mater-futurity by José Felipe Alvergue Seams by Migueltzinta Cah Mai Solís Pino The City is in...
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Forgotten Conversation

  Forgotten Conversation José Angel Araguz   I remember starting the book I borrowed–– stole–– a year earlier, since it was around me more than she was. Back then, I had the nights before me to call and call. 3AM, the back of my throat thick and smoke hollow, my tongue lingering over my R’s: Querrrida, sorry to call late, I’m here, one hundred three perrrrrcent chulo, you should call me. I have your Sandra Cisneros book, y como ella, I want you, juntito a mi. When she didn’t answer, I’d flip through the pages and marvel at the smell of cinnamon. I’d imagine an altar––perhaps candles and photographs around a night stand–– her asleep, her son with the spiked collar and black boots replacing her black nail polish. Back then, I had the nights before me full of perhaps. I would hold the book for hours, determined to get into it, the heart of a Mexican woman. Cisneros would’ve done it differently. She’d have a cigar and call herself Daddy. Her black hair would shine like plums in the moonlight as she prayed, unlike me, for something deeper than forgiveness. If given a second chance, she’d get it right...
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Don’t Forget Us: An Interview with Maia Cruz Palileo

  JoYin Shih interviews Maia Cruz Palileo The Cuchifritos Gallery is a pocket gallery tucked into the entrance of the Essex Market, at the gritty corner of intersecting neighborhoods—Chinatown and the Lower East Side. Artist Maia Cruz Palileo’s show, “Lost Looking,” was on exhibit this past winter. Upon entering, my gaze scanned the brightly lit studio before settling in for closer examination. Eyeing familiar images (a box television, a sleeping cat) and vibrant colors that conjure nostalgia, there was an instant presence of the real and unreal, a sense of magic realism, emanating from the images. As the title of the show aptly implied, the dozen paintings, selected by curator Jordan Buschur, reflected the integrations of Palileo’s Philippine ancestral homeland and her own Midwest American roots, recovered family lore; and objects and the emotional power they contain. Palileo walked me through the paintings, sharing the history that fueled each piece. Maia Cruz Palileo [MCP]: I was really excited to have a show at Cuchifritos Gallery. Part of their mission is: “to show exhibitions featuring the work of emerging and underrepresented contemporary artists with particular interest in exhibits that convey relevance to the local community.” I like the inclusiveness of this...
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