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Literature, PoetryFebruary 17, 2016

October Hurricane

Artwork by Atif Khan and Damon Kowarski. Image Courtesy ArtChowk Gallery.

Artwork by Atif Khan and Damon Kowarsky. Image Courtesy ArtChowk Gallery.

Tonight, holding a stranger
in my arms—
heat lightning,
cyclone-level tempests—
I thought of you,
alone,
or not alone,
in our distant hometown
during those last minutes
when the dive bars
and the dance pubs,
with their sleazy clientele,
are closing—
Some strangers pairing off,
each desiring
what little numbness
the other offers…
the lukewarm neon
an oil spill
in puddles of rain…
Our clubs. Our hometown—
No.
Holding her, not you,
my clubs, my hometown.
I watched clouds
empty themselves,
watched until the probing rays
of sunrise pointed out
the water damaged ceiling,
pointed out the ripped-off blue dress,
the recycled syringes,
as if the sunlight could hold
all things, each piece
of evidence,
to show me,
or make me realize—
But it can’t,
or isn’t trying hard enough.
All night I’ve slept,
or not slept,
with some woman who,
tomorrow,
I probably will not want
to see again—
Who will probably feel
the same way about me.
At least I’ll never
have to deal with her again.
Soon, she’ll migrate with another stranger—
I don’t expect anything more.
Our hometown seems so far,
and the moments I miss…
even though they were,
more likely,
ordinary,
like any memories—
hooked by human love,
the most relentless of barbs.
I remember,
after threatening your other man,
a mother blue jay building
her nest, twig by twig,
fiber by fiber,
constructing it so solemnly,
as if it mattered…
sizing it up
with such care.

~ Domenic Scopa

Domenic Scopa is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the 2014 recipient of the Robert K. Johnson Poetry Prize and Garvin Tate Merit Scholarship. He is a student of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program, where he studies poetry and translation, and he is a literature professor at Changing Lives Through Literature. He currently resides in Boston, Massachusetts.

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One last love letter...

April 24, 2021

It has taken us some time and patience to come to this decision. TMS would not have seen the success that it did without our readers and the tireless team that ran the magazine for the better part of eight years.

But… all good things must come to an end, especially when we look at the ever-expanding art and literary landscape in Pakistan, the country of the magazine’s birth.

We are amazed and proud of what the next generation of creators are working with, the themes they are featuring, and their inclusivity in the diversity of voices they are publishing. When TMS began, this was the world we envisioned…

Though the magazine has closed and our submissions shuttered, this website will remain open for the foreseeable future as an archive of the great work we published and the astounding collection of diverse voices we were privileged to feature.

If, however, someone is interested in picking up the baton, please email Maryam Piracha, the editor, at maryamp@themissingslate.com.

Farewell, fam! It’s been quite a ride.

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