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WALKING INTO THE OCEAN I frequently think about walking into the ocean. My sense of obligation to the earth simply the flimsy contract of a collapsed toy ship factory. I wonder how long fish would live if no longer fugitive to keel, kellick, and angry boom chain. Giving Botox to the water, the workers of our county must have looked forward to the coolness of soil when they drowned. The last of their incense breaths fleeing from Pender Street, home between ashy pages of quiet night and negligent morning. That portion of motherland was christened Oriental Hawaii. Which part did you name me after? I watch as you twist together umbilical buoy with steaming red sausage. Squeeze blood from wet towel. I get it all mixed up—the water from sausage oil, sun spots from badges of living. Tell me the difference between my bones and the bones of whale shark. Only, this nuclear explosion paints in tiny brushstrokes like iron filings. My ghost grips my neck until I can breathe again. My fear is that the ocean knows too much, would reject me too. The pomelo at the corner of our fridge untouched for months. Face torn up like sausage skin. Roof of my mouth softening, mistaken for glue. The ocean is a fable, seaweed stuck between front teeth. If we laid out our hides side by side, which of us would have more scales? And after all of it: I ride nekton back to before I walked. To find my baby-body fed. To find the coolness of soil in the ship yard’s false summer heat. Safe? A warmth I have betrayed has betrayed me. Who can say if this daydream is more about walking than about water. More about the empty swing than about the drop. More about daring to steal a pillow from a sleeping giant. Unwound spool and a jar of kitchen grease, honeying frozen flies. Somehow the tea is still cold; it’s like you have forgotten who I am. What would you do if I could become a worm wedged between subduction zone boundary between us, waking up to everything, gone? The ocean is not a feeling, not a child, not a mother, not a worker, not a word. But she is still learning from contours of glass—just like we are. jia you [1] putin marches chinese soldiers across shanghai streets. fear the Uighur terrorists, jiuma warns me, and no sooner, street stands steaming with nan and kebab fold into the hollow sprawls of massage parlours, german furniture stores, french bakeries, italian pubs, American sex toy shops, local shoe shops doubling as sunday school, real massage parlours, a lego construction of western carpets and han ornaments. disappeared. students tell each other before gaokao[2]: “jiayou.” mothers tell their children before gaokao: “jiayou.” thick wallets tell their diasporic offspring before AP economics: “jiayou.” translation: build pipelines transporting oil between Skovorodino and Daqing translation: build pipelines transporting greed and colonialism across Turtle Island rupture water with oil. drink oil-flavoured bbt with the thick straw of a gun barrel. brush your teeth with bitumen paste, rinse rinse repeat. extract it from skin browner than ours. take it, drink it. until the sun never dares set on our civilized, meddling kingdom. yellow powder amalgamated with sheens of white-- xiaojie the fairest in the land. a quick nod, scorching back scratcher: got you covered. advancing grades, following orders, guaihaizi marching westward until we lose ourselves between the failure of 89% and the success of swearing allegiance to the queen (making the last payment on the mortgage). filial, determined, loyal to the very end. there would be no chinese faces protesting pipelines that day. I wonder if we’d need to drink poison from these waters we steal from to see the filth on our hands. but you cannot bribe a river to love you, forgive you, no. not today. because the Yangtze remembers the poppies that poisoned, the villages evacuated, the children sold, the maozedongs and elizabeths laundered exchanged transported. just so little xingxing could go to school. just so little favourite grandchild could have a better life. just so we never have to talk about 49, 66-76, 89 tucked between the eights in our addresses and phone numbers, the ones and zeros of our pockets. just so. you tell me, “jia you.” but how can you when you do not know the name of this river. when you do not know where your bones will be buried. when you have crushed your veins between big data and the sea. just so we never have to talk about what we pretend not to know. a bottle of cooking oil, crushed by a tank. [1] jia you means “add oil,” another way to say “good luck” [2] gaokao is the National Higher Education Entrance Examination, a prerequisite exam to get into higher education in the People’s Republic of China Acknowledgement "jia you" previously published in Tributaries: ACAM undergraduate student journal Audio Credits Music for "jia you": "No More Trap" by Audiobinger (CC attribution non-commercial from free music archive). Music for "Walking into the Ocean": "through the water and rain" by soft and furious (public domain from free music archive). Jane Shi is a queer Chinese settler living on the unceded, traditional, and ancestral territories of the Musqueam, Squamish, and Tsleil-Waututh First Nations. Her writing has appeared in Briarpatch Magazine, Canthius, The Malahat Review, PRISM, and Room, among others. She wants to live in a world where love is not a limited resource, land is not mined, hearts are not filched, and bodies are not violated. Find her online @pipagaopoetry.
HOME = GARBAGE for Khalo looking out the window from my teta’s balcony at the news on my laptop some days they look the same and some days they don’t my aunt says this is weird there have never been any military tanks in zalka before three days in a row imagine the difference between this looks weird and military men directing traffic on a daily basis rifles slung across their shoulders waving the cars to keep going stop, turn left cars in two lanes somehow fitting themselves four wide stop, keep going, turn left this country is corrupt says my uncle this country smells like garbage contracts with the garbage company left unrenewed military men pinching their noses while directing traffic if we can’t manage garbage can we do anything right? we stop, keep going, turn left people sling bags of rotten garbage over mountain sides over roadsides drop garbage onto houses into the ocean anywhere but garbage disposal where to dispose when there is nowhere four months and my uncle is hospitalized lungs filled with pollution hundreds of people in the country polluted beirut protesters push industrial garbage bins into the middle of the road try pretending that doesn’t exist aimed at government officials refusing press people start to move them most people drive around them an obstacle course in preserving ignorance let us press our ignorance deeper throw bags over the shoulders of refugees this country is too small as though that’s the only problem religion into garbage brown sludge building when it’s too hot to stay inside my family heads to the beach stops at a checkpoint on the way up the mountains the military man with a rifle across his shoulders barely looks wipes sweat off his brow bored, nods, motions us forward the privilege of christianity there are hundreds of military checkpoints in this tiny country hundreds of bored military men stop, keep going, shmel there are thousands of palestinians in refugee camps in this country stop, undocumented, prohibited movement hindered by checkpoints in and out stop, undocumented, prohibited I don’t live in zalka anymore but every year I visit the garbage keeps growing downtown beirut skyscrapers hiding the garbage close the back windows or we’ll smell garbage speeding on the only highway in lebanon past garbage piles in flames taller than the gas station beside it my uncle’s lungs filled with garbage this country is corrupt, says my uncle and I ask him why he’s still here it’s home, he says, his nose plugged my family came back 18 years ago this is home, they say lungs filled with garbage Eli Tareq El Bechelany-Lynch is a queer Arab poet living in Tio’tia:ke, unceded Kanien’kehá:ka territory (Montreal). Their work has appeared in The Best Canadian Poetry 2018 anthology, GUTS, the Shade Journal, Arc Poetry Magazine, Room Magazine, and elsewhere. They were longlisted for the CBC poetry prize in 2019. knot body, a collection of creative non-fiction and poetry will be published September 2020 by Metatron Press, and The Good Arabs, a poetry collection, will be published in Fall 2021 with Metonymy Press. You can find them on Instagram and Twitter @theonlyelitareq.
ANTI-APOCALYPSE no nuclear winter no ice age no superbug no second coming no robot revolution a pear tree buckthorn plastic bags a river turtles "Anti-Apocalypse" previously published in Bad Animals (Insominac Press, 2018) Tom Cull teaches creative writing at Western University and was the Poet Laureate for the City of London from 2016-2018. Tom’s first collection of poems, Bad Animals, was published in 2018 by Insomniac Press. His work has appeared in such journals as the Rusty Toque, Long Con, and the New Quarterly; his poem “After Rivers” was included in the anthology Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (MSU Press, 2019). Tom is the director of Antler River Rally, a grass roots environmental group he co-founded in 2012 with his partner Miriam Love. ARR works to protect and restore Deshkan Ziibi (Thames River).
AVIAN ODES—CANADA GOOSE The chill, glassy mist just then Dissolving into hints of sultriness Echoed with jubilant honks, Avian position-signalling on high, Pulling my gaze up to your magnificent Flying V’s northward bound Flinging joyful vernal greetings. Come the ordained crisp autumn day The calls echoed again off frosted fields As your arrow formations streamed south, Bidding farewell until spring warmth Once more crept in. Winter past was deep, consistent; Now it staggers all around, Reeling under humanity’s blows, Glistening white morphs To sulky brown mud, Defiantly open water Supplants sparkling ice. Eminently flexible, A few goose homebodies Spawned many more of you that Seize what’s on offer, spurn the effort And trade glorious flight for ungainly Waddling about and strolls through traffic, Expropriating luscious, manicured turf, Cheerfully crapping all over your squattage; Soaring nobility mutated to a Grey-brown-black wingéd pest Herded off the cathedral greensward By a bellowing leaf blower; Target practice for a skulking Archer in a London park; Clubbing victim of a sportsman Whose putt was ruined by an Inopportune anserine klaxon. Undaunted, you multiply and toddle on, Once a belovéd seasonal herald, Now flocks of Cassandras trumpeting Warnings, flaunting consequences, Announcing a battle joined. Jennifer Wenn is a trans-identified writer and speaker from London, Ontario. Her first poetry chapbook, A Song of Milestones, has been published by Harmonia Press (an imprint of Beliveau Books). She has also written From Adversity to Accomplishment, a family and social history; and published poetry in Beliveau Review, The Ekphrastic Review, Open Minds Quarterly, Tuck Magazine, Synaeresis, Big Pond Rumours, the League of Canadian Poets Fresh Voices, Wordsfestzine, and the anthology Things That Matter. She is also the proud parent of two adult children with a day job as a systems analyst. Jennifer Wenn's website.
STAND BY THE LAST STREAM Mother, I can hear you cry with every pipeline being laid to unrest deep in your folds, deep in your layers. I can hear you cry and those who believe know why- Stand by the last stream it’s only a matter of time and stories will be told of a time when water was clean and free. It will be a fairy tale in good books sold at exotic establishments. It will be what dreams are made of and what man will die for. Stand by the last stream watch it struggle pitifully, trying to complete the circle with nothing left to prov. Stand by the last rive,r gather around it to pray hard this doesn’t end the intentions of Mother Earth. Remember the slow trickles, the last sounds anyone ever hears of a time when water was clear and a time when it was free, a time when water fell from the sky clear droplet, clear droplets that could be tasted as it fell. Stand by the last stream that feedds the life of our animals who trusted Mother earth to always provide. Imagine the new bear or the new child not knowing where the last stream is. What will become of them? Stand by the last strea, the last unmurky source of life, peace and renewal, gurgling, choking for breath and space not a fish in sight because they are all in farms and zoos. Stand by the last stream as our children's’ children gather round and wonder why, saying they could have done a better job, and they’d be right. Stand by the last stream, with your friends and loved ones and reminisce about a time when you could reach in with both hand, almost in prayer and cup the water and drink straight from Mother Earth- the breast of mankind. Stand by the last stream wondering what happened, turning into a 3rd world country as the trees that once stood tall, fall by the wayside waiting to be turned into more paper for more signatures and stamps of approval to go ahead and destroy the last stream. Stand by the last stream with your child looking on at the last crystal clear wate trickling to an end and try to find the words to explain. Try and explain what no one will understand and hindsight is 20-20 Stand by the last stream as money floats by instead of fish, and gold can’t be eaten, and silver can’t be eaten, and diamonds can’t be worn, and animals can’t be saved, and the trees rot on the ground while children swarm singing in empty playgrounds by the last stream, and you can’t give a newborn oil, and not even the dandelions will grow, and the birds won’t call, and the pictures you see in your head will only be a story... and the only thing left will be regret... Will you stand stand by the last stream... Previously published in Seven Sacred Truths, Talonbooks in 2018. Cree poet Wanda John-Kehewin studied criminology, sociology, Aboriginal studies, and creative writing while attending the Writer’s Studio writing program at Simon Fraser University. She uses writing as a therapeutic medium through which to understand and to respond to the near decimation of First Nations culture, language, and tradition. She has two poetry books published by Talonbooks, two children’s readers and is currently working on a graphic novel. She finds time to write between the lines.
SOUTHERN GASTRIC-BROODING FROG Rheobatrachus silus collected by David S. Liem Australia 1972 adult male 38.4 mm snout to vent slate-coloured smooth, slimy skin prominent eyes, black with gold spots round blunt snout jaws close snap inhabit boulder-strewn streams, spend days submerged summer rains initiate breeding females swallow fertilized eggs, tadpoles develop in the stomach, are birthed through the mother’s mouth fully-formed froglets spew forth 1978 summer rains late 1979 rains very late 1980 & 1981 rains late again last seen in the wild December 1979 last captive frog died November 1983 Extinct THE CALL OF THIS SPECIES The grunting of a pig a hen cackling the bleat of a sheep the low bellow of an ox a cricket singing near the water a dog’s bark a duck quacking young crows cawing a delicate insect-like tinkle a broken banjo string a finger running over the small teeth of a comb a squeaky door being slowly opened a carpenter’s hammer the tapping of paddles on the side of a canoe a cough a watch being wound a nasal snarl a low-pitched snore two marbles being struck together sleigh bells the clangor of a blacksmith's shop P-r-r-r- pip-pip-pip-pip poo-poo-poo-poo-poo-poo purrrreeeek cr, cr, cr cre-e-e-e-e-e-p, cre-e-e-e-e-e-p pst-pst-pst queenk, queenk eeek! kraw, kraw, kraw jwah, jwah ah, ah, ah, ah krack, krack, krack ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-ac, ca-ha-ha-ac pé-pé, pé-pé kle-kle-kle-klee cran, cran, cran, c-r-r-en, c-r-r-en creck-creck-creck cut-cut-cut-cut ric-up, ric-up, ric-up ru-u-u-ummm ru-u-u-ummm grrruut-grrruut-grrruut-grrruut grau, grau gick, gick, gick, gick tschw, tschw, tschw wurrk, wur-r-r-k trint-trint tr-r-r-onk tr-r-r-onk, tr-r-r-onk! The call of this species has not been recorded THREATS fragmentation of forest clearance of cloud forest movement of the cloud layer up the mountainside timber harvesting landslides ice in the montane grasslands late rains severe dry seasons drought-related increases in evaporation successive fires extending deeper into the rainforest slash-and-burn agriculture cattle grazing illicit crops irrigation practices illegal mining guerrilla activities construction of a dam upstream construction of a cable car pesticides used in maize farming upstream airborne pollution conversion of habitat into a golf course Las Vegas invasion of mist flower introduction of the Bullfrog non-native trout safari ants feral pigs lack of genetic diversity heavy parasite loads exportation for the pet trade stress due to handling for data collection over-collecting chytridiomycosis chytridiomycosis chytridiomycosis
Kate Sutherland lives in Toronto where she writes poems, makes collages, and teaches law. She is the author of three books: Summer Reading (winner of a Saskatchewan Book Award), All In Together Girls, and How to Draw a Rhinoceros (shortlisted for a Creative Writing Book Award by the Association for the Study of Literature and the Environment). A new collection of poems, The Bones Are There, is forthcoming from Book*hug Press in Fall 2020. These three poems are part of a longer sequence about extinct frog species which will appear in its entirety in the new collection.
BLAZE ISLAND: AN EXCERPT Miranda woke in darkness. She was riding a fierce wind. The changes were not going to stop. Someone was moving about below her, and the small sounds would have been reassuring, except that it was only a little after five a.m. Whoever was below had lit a fire. Heat ticked in the metal chimney on the far side of the room, the ticks speeding up. Miranda whispered to Ella, the dog, not to stir. Through the half-open door of her father’s bedroom, she took in the tussle of his empty bedclothes, reading glasses tossed atop his dresser. Always there had been secrets in this house, and she had surrendered to her father’s desire for them, the things they’d kept hidden about their past, other things he’d attempted to hide from her and she’d allowed herself to ignore, but a new impatience surged as if she were struggling to climb over the fence that encircled her. Downstairs, in his coveralls, eating a slice of toast at the counter, her father turned sharply at the sound of her footsteps. “Miranda, what are you doing up?” “Couldn’t sleep.” She kept her voice as low as his. He’d made only the one mug, not a pot, and everything in his posture made her presence an intrusion. He wasn’t welcoming her, she was merely slowing his escape. “Why don’t you go back to bed. There’s no need for you to be up so early.” But she was wide awake. “Where are you off to?” His face relaxed into a smile. “To see if by some miracle I can access the internet at the cabin.” “Can I come with you?” It was an impulsive thought, and he said no before adding, “There’s no need for that.” “Why not if I want to. Are you meeting someone?” He shook his head. “Best to have one of us stay with our guest.” Our guest, she thought, and then, more possessively, my guest. Something else gnawed: Would her father lie to her? Had he before, would he again? Did her own safety make the lies justifiable? “Dad — the plane that landed at the airstrip the day before yesterday, who was on it and what are they doing here?” Her father gulped down the dregs of his tea and set his mug in the sink. “Miranda, I need you to sit tight for a bit. Can you do that for me?” He was ruffling her hair, asking her to do something for him once again. She shook herself free, some essential part of her refusing to be deterred, a new resolve forming in her throat. “Why won’t you answer me? I’m supposed to do what you want but you’re always hiding things from me — saying we should never leave then inviting people here and going off with them. What are you actually doing? Whatever you’re up to, it isn’t just weather monitoring, is it?” “Miranda.” He stepped into the middle of the room. “If I’ve kept secrets, it’s only been for your own good. Things are in such a precarious state. I’m trying, from this out-of-the-way corner of the world, to do everything I can—” “What if I don’t want to be protected like that?” He didn’t have an answer, other than to show her that she’d jarred him. When he hugged her, the strength of his embrace stopped her mouth even as she struggled to say more. The next moment, with a rustle of jacket and shudder of boot, her father was gone. Always when she’d allowed herself to think about the future it had been shaped by the contours of the past: how else did you envision what was to come other than by reconfiguring what you knew? There were days when, swayed by Caleb’s suggestions, Miranda had imagined living with him on the far side of the cove even as another part of her retracted from the dream. She had assumed that somehow Caleb and Sylvia would be in her life forever. What she loved would always continue, how could it not? More often she’d seen herself living in the little white house in Green Cove with her father and Ella, taking care of her father, because he needed her to do this. She’d ruffle Ella’s fur, meet her brown-eyed stare. There’d be more animals, because she wanted more, she would tend the land, build a bigger greenhouse, listen and note each time the wind shifted, there would be order and safety in such a life, in its deep choreographies and self-sufficiencies, in being responsive to sea and sky and the wild and ragged weather growing wilder all around them. There had been ruptures and alterations, but nothing had shaken her fundamental belief in the continuity of this life, given to her after the biggest rupture of all, the catastrophes that had sent the two of them fleeing to the island: everything here was proof that, despite grief, a new life could be made. Even the rupture of losing Caleb, painful as it was, had somehow been bearable. She’d gone on. They all had. Now, though, the world looked so different she wasn’t sure she could step back into the body she’d inhabited only a day ago. Catherine Bush is the author of five novels, including Blaze Island (2020), the Canada Reads long-listed Accusation (2013), the Trillium Award short-listed Claire’s Head (2004), and The Rules of Engagement (2000), a New York Times Notable Book and a L.A. Times Best Book of the Year. She was recently a Fiction Meets Science Fellow at the HWK in Germany and has spoken internationally about addressing the climate crisis in fiction. She is an Associate Professor at the University of Guelph and Coordinator of the Guelph Creative Writing MFA, located in Toronto, Canada, and can be found online at www.catherinebush.com.  Blaze Island: a novel
By Catherine Bush Goose Lane Editions, 2020 Synopsis The time is now or an alternate near now, the world close to our own. A devastating Category Five hurricane sweeps up the eastern seaboard of North America. On tiny Blaze Island in the North Atlantic, Miranda Wells finds herself in an unrecognizable landscape. Just as the storm disrupts the present, it stirs up the past: Miranda’s memories of growing up in an isolated, wind-swept cove and the events of long ago that her father, once a renowned climate scientist, will not allow her to speak of. In the storm’s aftermath, things change so quickly and radically that she hardly knows what has happened. Blaze Island asks how far a parent will go to create a safe world for a child and how that child will imagine a future. A gripping story, the novel unfurls in the midst of constantly shifting elements: drifting icebergs, winds that grow ever wilder, and the unpredictability of human actions. { judith }
THE CONSUMPTION THERAPY™ DEMONSTRATION CHAMBER September 2019 Durational Performance DESCRIPTION The Consumption Therapy™ Demonstration Chamber was a performance that occurred during the 2019 Hold Fast Contemporary Arts Festival in St. John’s, Newfoundland. This performance was framed as a live demonstration of an absurdist therapy that claims to cure an individual of the drive to consume goods at the rate encouraged by our neoliberal, klepto-capitalist society. The Chamber was a large, inflatable plastic ball, half-filled with plastic recycling that was donated by the art community in St. John’s. Plastic of all varieties was included, creating a visual cacophony of colours, textures, and advertising. During the performance I was inside the ball, in character as “The Hobbyist”, tumbling, rolling, and immersing myself in the plastic detritus, forced to confront and exist within a tiny fraction of the throwaway plastic waste that is generated each day across the world. This performance was an absurd spectacle of a person yielding to plastic waste: a demonstration of the struggle to remove one’s self from the society that is engaging in the destruction of the planet. It reverses a person’s typical relationship with waste: instead of being rendered invisible with waste management infrastructure, it engulfs the consumer, forcing them to surrender to the evidence of their consumption. The Consumption Therapy™ Demonstration Chamber, 2019  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #1, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #2, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #2, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #2, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #3, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #3, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #4, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances)  Consumption Therapy Chamber, Performance #4, 2019 PVC inflatable ball, Plastic recycling/waste collected from St. John’s, NL community Eastern Edge Gallery, St. John’s, NL (4, 20 minute performances) Arianna Richardson is a sculptor, performance artist, and mother from Treaty Seven territory (Lethbridge, AB). Richardson most often works under the pseudonym, The Hobbyist, employing hobby-craft techniques to work through an investigation of ubiquitous consumption, gendered labour, waste, excess, and spectacle.
Richardson holds a BFA (2013) in Studio Arts from the University of Lethbridge and an MFA (2018) from NSCAD in Halifax, NS. She was awarded the Roloff Beny Photography Scholarship in 2012 and the Alberta Arts Graduate Scholarship in 2016. Her work has been exhibited across Canada and has been featured in the December 2018 issue of Performance Research, “On Generosity” and Volume 8 of Emergency Index: An Annual Document of Performance Practice. Website: www.ariannarichardson.ca IT WON'T END WITH A BANG,
it won’t end with DEFCON 1, but with muddied water guzzled down desperate throats and mothers crying at shallow graves. with winds whispering away whimpering cities, and brothers packing mothers and sisters to safety. it won’t end with the masses. there will be no riots in the streets, instead they will run blue and be made seas gushing into coast. it won’t end with a hero. no, the hero will die of pneumonia, or starve when the livestock have died from dysentery and mildew has taken the plants. we won’t be chased. if we had been, we may have run. instead, death will crawl at a sickly pace and close the space between us. it will end how it all started… with water rushing shores, earth cracking open, and fire razing forests, to make room for new inhabitants. but not with a bang. Ayman Arik Kazi is a Muslim, bisexual, Bangladeshi-Canadian immigrant and a student at the University of Western Ontario. That's a lot of identifiers. He founded the Western's first community for spoken word artists and poets, Spoken Word Society. He has written for several small publications like Young Voices and The Reckoner of MGCI. Ayman likes weaving the many aspects of his often conflicting identity into art that offers a scope into his mind.
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AboutWatch Your Head is an online anthology of creative works devoted to the climate crisis and climate justice.
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