Migrants

by Rafiq Kathwari When I was ten, Grandpa drove me on a crisp autumn evening to see geese, gulls, and ducks descend with expanded wings on Wular. “Asia’s largest freshwater lake,” he said. “They fly in disciplined formation like copper-tipped arrows across the desolation of sky, along Himalayan foothills, arcing between Mughal domes from Kashgar…

Poem

I Remember My First Great American Love I remember the first time I met Sophia at O’Hara’s the quintessential American café on Restaurant Row in Manhattan’s Theatre District, 35-years ago on the Tuesday before Good Friday. I remember leaves sprouting after the long winter nakedness. I remember she paused at the coat check. I remember…

Maryam: David Barsamian and Rafiq Kathwari share family histories in an exchange of letters

Dear Rafiq, I just received your new book of poems, “My Mother’s Scribe,” and was delighted to learn your mother’s name is Maryam. My maternal grandmother was named Maryam. My mother (Araxie, ten-years old) last saw her and her 3 younger brothers in Urfa on the Death March in 1915. They were in bad shape.…