"I will die on this hill, the hill that says: Everything that happens online is real. Online is reality, as much as meatspace."

They had sat there with all their worthy feelings about Zariyah Zhadan’s poetry, perversely enjoying the disruption of the recital by a finger circling the rim of a wine glass.

On becoming a kitchen archivist.

They kissed because they wanted to, because no one could see them, because they could barely see each other, because their mouths were better off without words.

"& when will i be emptied by what a night doesn’t promise instead of what it does”

Roland Rugero talks about living the literary life in a country of orality, writing across three languages, and upending the Eurocentrism that still decides which African voices get heard.

Our most treasured souvenirs are steeped in home, and the flight from it.

Don’t even start with they weren’t real.

“We didn’t have sex then.” Luisa paused. “I just…made it up.” She kissed her sister’s shoulder through the cloth of her nightgown. A relief invaded Amaia; the force of it embarrassed her slightly.

There’s a man who sits at his desk this evening, / bearing witness to the end of days.