Issue 43

Issue 43, Poetry

Nothing Stinks Like Lust in a Young Woman

July 17, 2026 /
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art by Virgil Suárez 
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by Hajer Requiq

Nothing stinks like lust
in a young woman.
My cannibal heart is drunk
on its own blood.
For nearly thirty years,
it’s eaten nothing but shame.
Today, it sits in my chest
like a hump on a hunchback,
useless and heavy.
I am still teaching the tornados
in my body
to turn into summer breeze.
My last lover couldn’t make it
past my mouth.
My Cerberus tongue
howling and yowling
at the gate,
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Hybrid, Issue 43

Knox, and Breakfast Sundaes

July 17, 2026 /
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art by Virgil Suárez 
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by Taylor Sykes

Knox

We take Route 231 that day to a nowhere town an hour away. We’d heard it was something to do in the summer when there was nothing to do in the summer. She says, “I don’t think I’ll do it but I’ll watch you.” And I say, “You better get this shit on tape. I want a record of my recklessness.” Just another corn town on a yawn of flat road where country kids go when they’re bored. Go looking for a gravel road near a bridge where no trains pass.
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Global Voices, Interviews, Issue 43, Poetry, Translation

Global Voices: A conversation with Iranian poet Ali Asadollahi

July 17, 2026 /

by LIT Translation Editor J.P. Apruzzese

Introduction

For more than two decades, Iranian poet, translator, and editor Ali Asadollahi has been quietly expanding the possibilities of contemporary Persian poetry. The author of six poetry collections, he has written across free verse, haiku, visual poetry, and other experimental forms, guided by a restless commitment to exploration rather than any single aesthetic program. Alongside his own work, he has devoted himself to translation, introducing contemporary world poetry to Persian readers while helping bring Persian literature into conversation with audiences beyond Iran.

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The Bronx, 1961

July 17, 2026 /

art by Stephen Ground

by Shana Ritter



The street is sheen heat flickers 
off the sidewalks, we skip 
to avoid cracks not wanting 
to break any backs. Shouts
of ringolevio, echo off brick 
squat six story buildings.

In the shade girls doubledutch chanting 
I know something I won’t tell 
three little monkeys in a peanut shell
on the corner another group surrounds
one girl bouncing a Spalding, singing
A my name is Alice and, raises her legs 
above the ball back and forth 
in graceful arcs through the alphabet.

Hybrid, Issue 43

Three Models of a Completely Empty Notebook

July 17, 2026 /
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art by Suzana Stojanović
```
by Marushka Rose Grogan

Section 1: Introduction

For years, I’ve sensed my life colliding with the snapped-string signs
That used to tie

Atoms, you, and me.

The first thing you must know is that this book is completely empty
It’s the only way I was able to keep it all

Organized

The first thing you must know is that these pages are now full.
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Hybrid, Issue 43

Blue Angel Jets Oversee a Florida Pool Party

July 17, 2026 /
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art by Andrew Velazquez
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by Courtney Hitson

The Fort Lauderdale Air Show’s slated to start in 13 minutes. A mom, almost not-frowning, poses sculptures of fruit: her striated shell of a hollowed watermelon becomes a shark’s gaping maw stuffed with grapes. A pineapple turns to an owl, complete with cross-sectioned, orange-slices of eyes and leaves divvied into flanks. Teenagers selfie their faces into whimsical pouts, as if yard gnomes flirting with sentience. Adorable and invasive parakeets spectate the scene from a perimeter of unlit tiki torches. They are gossipy rascals,
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Issue 43

Section 1: Introduction