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My father shot the neighbors’
dog, and their little girl
still plays in front of his
house in. . .
Like other gourds / chayote has a sprawling habit / and should only be planted if / there is plenty of room in the / garden.
I forgot to say goodbye to the kids.
I knelt into my weeping until my heart
broke me awake.
On providing therapy for agents of state violence.
Two Palestinian novels confront the ghosts of the Nakba.
There’s nothing novel about Netflix’s culture of fear.