MAGAZINE

A poem by Noah Kelly.

The isolation of Guyanese culture.

A poem by Sanna Wani.

Why consent in the age of #MeToo extends to virtual spaces.

My experience of a tangible diaspora.

There is not much I remember when it comes to alcohol. I don’t remember the precise moment I stopped drinking. I don’t remember when I started or when it became a problem or when I realized it had become one.

I take words and write them down, more often than I should. I wish I could write down and remember everything. Certain words put together compel me to write them down and keep them forever.

There is a saying in Arabic that roughly translates to: the gates of heaven lie at the feet of your mother. A strange phrase, she always thought. Categorizing her mother alongside heavenly bodies, or notions of angels and eternal happiness was not something she could ever do.

A photo by Hana Nikčević.

In every home I’ve visited, whether an aunt’s, an uncle’s, or a cousin’s, the mantelpiece holds a picture of their ornamental day, the consecration of a union between man and wife.