By Caitlin Thomson / Poetry / In the beginning of the world my father was gifted a knife by his boss. The whole office was. Sharp, heavy, and expensive. A bonus for the winter break. A good year celebrated in steel. Three people ended up in the emergency room. Not anyone in my family—although everyone cut themselves, and I still have the scar thirty-two years later. It’s the only one I remember the source of. I was younger at the time than my oldest daughter is now. It’s hard

By Mistee St Clair / Poetry / - at Süleymaniye Mosque Outside the barrier to the prayer hall, I get down on my knees with the other women and listen to the imam lead the prayer. I can’t tell if it’s music or instructions. I fall into his rhythm and wipe my eyes with my headscarf. Concentric rings of chandeliers hang so low I could almost reach them. It’s only been a few weeks and I am here, in ruins and existing. A young woman kneels next to me and asks if I am ok, that maybe