Summer-Fall 2025 Issue 27

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Becoming: A Multimodal Exploration of Identity & Family with Cathy Linh Che

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During AWP 2025, I had the opportunity to sit down with poet Cathy Linh Che.  The last year has been a busy one with the debut of her video installation, Appocalips, a short documentary film We Were the Scenery, and the forthcoming publication of her second poetry book Becoming Ghost. At the same time, she joined Antioch University’s MFA in Creative Writing program as Core Faculty in Poetry.

Cathy Linh Che’s new book, Becoming Ghost (Washington Square Press, 2025), is due in stores on April 29, 2025. Cathy received her MFA from New York University. She is the author of the poetry book, Split (Alice James, 2014), and co-author of An Asian American A to Z: A Children’s Guide to Our History (Haymarket Books, 2023). She won the 2012 Kundiman Poetry Prize; the 2015 Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society

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I Was a Good Soldier, Then I Was Nothing

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I was sixteen the first time a man called me a faggot. I was twenty-two the first time I let myself believe he might have been right. In between, I wore a uniform, carried a rifle, and did everything I could to prove to the world and myself that I was a good soldier. Because good soldiers don’t cry. Good soldiers don’t flinch. Good soldiers don’t let people see them break.
They never told us that war wouldn’t end when they said it was over. That it would come home with us. That it would sit beside us in empty rooms, curl up in our chests at night, wait in

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author_headshot_Hardin

The Body Shipped Back from Nam Wasn’t Dead Enough

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The boys who first accused him were labeled “troubled” by our church, from “broken” families. Foothill Christian Center defended him, paid his legal fees. My father visited him in jail, although my mother swears this never happened. I know differently—I was jealous because he wouldn’t take me too.

In 1989, as part of the University of Houston Honors Program’s delegation to the Model Arab

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I Swear to Tell the Truth, the Whole Food, and Nothing but the Body

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Don’t do it, Justin. But I need it. I was sitting in the parking lot of Dunkin Donuts in South Burlington, Vermont. My rusted Toyota Camry was filled with fast food takeout containers, as I debated how to order two dozen donuts just for me. I was an OB—original binger. There were no self-checkout kiosks or DoorDash. I had to stare down a human being right in the eyes in order to obtain my obscene quantities. Rule one was obvious: Don’t just be my true self. Hi, I’m a 28-year-old lawyer, and I’d like to eat twenty of your delicious donuts

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Curb Conversations

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I never thought I’d pick it up again. Goo khoshtra, I berate myself whenever stale smoke sours my stomach or blurs my vision—shit tastes better. Yet here I stand beneath the mulberry tree outside our house in Bukan, a cigarette smouldering between my fingers. I watch the glowing tip fade, then crush it with a twist of my shoe.
I place my Touchstone book on the shoe rack and glance at my wristwatch. In the corridor

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author_headshot_Jarmul

Polly Pocket

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In the corner of the cold basement, hidden behind
the futon, I pop open my Goodwill treasure—
Polly’s heart-shaped home. The plastic stairs slide

into place. Her purple bed, always perfectly made.
Pink & yellow kitchen with its plastic pots & pans.
The gate, near the plastic stones & grass. Her baby

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Pushing the Boundaries On Hags, Slags, and Sluts: Poet Katie Beswick in Plumstead Pram Pushers

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Whether in serial bullying, the joshing of friendship, or the post-trauma epithets that cut and remain tender in life, the names we call one another really matter. Far beyond the locker-linedhallways of high school, these slurs can take on power and rob the recipient of the fundamental agency of self-naming. Katie Beswick’s new collection of poems explores these realities by going mano-a-mano with an old term of derision for women—taken from what is to be cast off from smelting of metals. This gendered put-down is her material and she works it with all the skills of a theater artist, writer, and scholar with the energy and ability to explore naming with great inventiveness.

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Translator_headshot_Thila_Varghese

Those who were born with the land

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When our ancestors were born,
it was from those yonder mountains
the cool wind blew,
and it was in the river flowing down from there
they bathed.
Like consuming three meals a day,
they sang songs that were steeped
in the scent of grains.

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The Swallow of Langmu Si & Climb Up High and Gaze Into The Distance

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facing the sea stands towering Fortress Hill
Sunrise Pavilion at the summit, on clear days
stretching towards the sky, I almost touch the clouds

on rainy days, the solitary iron cable suspended midair
seems lonely

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author_Paula_Williamson

Joy, Clarity, and the Stage: A Conversation with John Cariani

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John Cariani is an actor, playwright, and storyteller who believes in the power of joy on stage. Best known for Almost, Maine, one of the most produced plays in the US, Cariani brings a unique perspective to both writing and performing, one shaped by his roots in rural Maine, his years as a working actor, and his deep love for language and storytelling. His work advocates hope, humor, and humanity, and he’s not afraid to challenge the idea that theater has to be serious to be meaningful.

In our conversation, we discussed his transition from acting to playwriting, the importance of clarity in storytelling, and how he juggles his many creative roles. And, of course, we talked about joy and why, despite its challenges, it remains essential to the writing process. Over the past few months, I’ve had the pleasure of working with John, and he’s been nothing short of engaging, insightful, and full of energy.

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author_headshot_peacockPhoto credit: Dana Lynn Pleasant Photography

No Such Thing as Just One M&M

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“One em-ah-em, only one,” my toddler begs, holding up two fingers and pointing to the cabinet where we hide the Costco-sized carton of M&Ms. Haimish is alarmingly precocious. He says things like “My name is Haimish, and this is my Mommy and my Mama. I like your outfit. Do you like my outfit?” to strangers, and has been able to count to twenty since he was just over a year old. But looking at his little empanada-shaped hand raising those two tiny fingers, I am reminded that memorizing a sequence of numbers is not the same as counting, and he is still only two.

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