Whither the increase in popcorn and cola sales (the war between police and terrorists), full of earth, a secret agrarian association, this hymn is sometimes so polite and terse. At school I was known as a terror and went looking for fights. It also has mining interests, stretches its neck as soon as a stranger alights in its neighborhood. Divide the great oceanic basins of war-time exploits in the Resistance, he cowers like a provisional wing, what becomes of the pretended white female in the Antilles? You wake up, take your licks, get skin-searched. The minister cannot expect journalists to do violence to the English language, the majority are made of silk. After this follows the hymn, this hymn is sometimes called a short cold water rinse, this regime means that the Greeks whom we are killing and shooting in Cyprus are warp stop motions, the shock that hurls her fabric in the dust. So her beams did, in this enthralling autobiography, from childhood to a cloudless Arctic Sea, a pair of frog-print slacks could not poll a hundred votes.
Anis Shivani’s work appears in Black Warrior Review, The Journal, Volt, Prairie Schooner, West Branch, Third Coast, Subtropics, Georgia Review, Yale Review, and elsewhere. A poetry omnibus called Logography is out later this year. Recent books include Karachi Raj: A Novel, Soraya: Sonnets, and Literary Writing in the 21st Century: Conversations.