Poet's StatementI grew up in New York, and I was always surrounded by languages. Spanish, Cantonese, Sanskrit, Yiddish, Mandarin. This is an angrier poem than I've posted here before, but sometimes I don't want to translate myself. Sometimes I don't want to tell people what my name means. Sometimes I am angry. Of course, plenty of people have a much harder time with this, but it's all the same problem. People pretend they can't pronounce my name. Mostly, I'm polite about it.
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Welcome to the Final Hour BlogAbout UsThis blog is the companion to The Last Day of the Year Literary Magazine. Follow us here for thoughts, process, and our own work. We're so glad to have you. Archives
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