Song of sapphic orange juice by Aadrit Banerjee citrus blues on soft carpels, a tapestry of fibres weaved on them, lemon smell bringing memories of a hundred winter tales of grandmothers sewing, and shelling oranges, and afternoons of tangy flavored- kisses, peeled skin scattered over green grass, so red inside, winter sunlight playing on nude bodies tangled over graveyards, and half-eaten oranges over Jamali-Kamali's tomb, shaped like smiles of female hysteria, hidden under

Artwork by S.H. Raza Prayers are beautiful until they have no god to go to by Khatija Khan in families like mine, the first thing they teach you is to pray to raise your palms and ask what you want to wear your heart on your sleeve and call upon god to make a contract with the sky and dive into the ground for sujood and knit your forehead into the prayer mat, the way a fisherman's wife knits his death into his sweater i remember how my grandmother taught me how to pray she sa