Zainab Mubashir

A kitten died in front of me yesterday, its head a paperweight, small body writhing about, limbs like a gymnast’s, clambering, climbing against air. Within seconds a man redirected traffic to scoop it up and drop it by the road’s edge, then turned his back to resume loading a supply van. I remained in my parked car, staring where the body lay, now unmoving entirely. I was too far to see more than a vague shape, too far to detect breathing, only aware of its presence as a witness. The man didn’t l...

I woke up late today, moving at a leisurely pace. That is my standard pace for most actions if I am left to my own devices. I'm supposed to be working from home today, so I am experiencing a sense of urgency at the back of my mind: I must wash up, eat breakfast, and sit down to work before I ‘waste’ any more time. But the feeling is suppressed. My instinct is to be slow, always. To do things at leisure, at my own pleasure, without has...

there’s a certain degree of (performative! yes!) carelessness that compels me to start typing directly onto this platform in lowercase letters as if i simply do not care how my words are received once they are out of my system. i care very much, please — but that caring has led me to not writing anything, ever, and frankly i am tired of myself. so. if my survival — creative and otherwise — necessitates that i embrace the path of absolute apathy and open myself up to hypothetical hate that surpas...

or experiencing hurt as regeneration (a poem)

I first learned of liminal spaces in an introduction to anthropology class in my first semester of college. I do not fully recall what was being discussed — something about sacred spaces and thresholds in cultural rituals — but I have visceral memories of being in the front row, second seat, second half of class. The memory of that class is a distinct marker of a singular part of my life. Sometimes I think of it as a beginning, but I have many beginnings to account for.