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The old language
says the apple
is the old apple
it gave her
the dance floor
she needed, all
those vocabularies. . .
My mother wrestles with the stakes
and I with her, with the tomato vines
caught in our decades-old wires.
I have met the famous men, the gaunt Caucasians with the powers you’ve heard about and thought you could fight, the men of. . .
Worker dissent brews at an iconic New York bookstore.
On providing therapy for agents of state violence.
Two Palestinian novels confront the ghosts of the Nakba.