Tremors and agitations. A ground-shaking issue in two halves introduces Proximity, a portfolio of writing and art by women of color.
The Launch of AGNI 104
Exit Poll
Sea Lung
Notes from the Sphere: A Series
An ongoing series on translation. From editor Issam Zineh:
“AGNI has long held literary translation in high regard as an art form. We respect the power of translators to amplify the cultural and imaginative forces of other times, places, and traditions and, in doing so, reveal the multiplicities within our own. . . . We hope this series will deepen readers’ engagement with translated works. Through that engagement, many worlds are possible.”
From AGNI 103
Annunciation, Part III
To Be in a Time of War
The Head of Goliath
It didn’t always land, but we let her tell it as many times as she wanted, every time she got drunk we let her tell us again, we understood she had to get the story out of her system. Like she might get it right eventually and we’d all laugh together and it’d be okay, it’d be over then, finally, it would be over.
Featured
“The Border Moves Through Us”: From Minneapolis, 2026
To plan a route to pick up my child from school, I check iceout.org for a map of recent ICE sightings. They’ve multiplied in recent days, with the Federal occupation surging to 3,000 agents in Minneapolis, five times the size of the city’s police department. Earlier in the morning, . . .
Honoring the Opaque: Strategies for (Not) Translating Queerness
I’m writing this because of a translator’s note that’s got me worked up, a paratext that appears in the Korean edition of Torrey Peters’s novel Detransition, Baby.
Pleistoscene
Begging to differ, we have not
An ounce of poetry, no libraries, no bindings,
No sooth-singers, no melting iambs.
Wedding
I left without saying goodbye to him, my escape quicker and quieter than I’d imagined. And now, as I walk down my street, everything has taken on a peculiar quality: the road narrower than I thought, the stench of trash rising and mingling with a trace of ginger, the lights at the corner . . .
Angel with a Flower on Her Chest
In late summer 2005, I disembarked in the city of Mostar after a three- or four-hour bus ride from Dubrovnik, the vaunted pearl of the Adriatic in neighboring Croatia. The wars that had dismantled Yugoslavia . . .
Mihalis Katsaros in the Craving Clutch of the Moon
Sometimes we wake with a cave in our chest,
a dwelling we call Look here with me and weep.