Jervey Tervalon introduces us to the albino kid. Abhiram Kuchibhotla instructs us to search for "utensils in Telugu" and swap languages—yes, with the arrows in the middle of the two. Brittany Ackerman has forgotten the sea turtles, but remembers the Sea Stars. If you’re looking for AJ Donley, she’s in the land of rage and empty, where Leila Farjami’s elegy blows in from the East like a wind fairy; like Mahsa, Mitra, Azar, and Mehraveh. Meanwhile, Michael Chang, raised by religious cheerleaders, leads us into the lab where America’s premier soft boi was born—and Imran Boe Khan fingers the soft fabric of the babygrow. Corinne Dekkers knows the animal market makes a living off selling our forests back to us. R.A. Pavoldi leads us into the basement where a guy who dressed like Elvis before anyone dressed like Elvis sits all day, while Enya Fang is learning from werewolves. Deborah Schwartz rings out her loneliness to the great blue and murky East Boston ocean while a plane comes so very close, she touches it. Robert Cunningham gets up, fetches his face from the drawer, flaps it out, washes it, creams it and hooks it on. Jane Donohue reminds us there are days in early summer when the sky looms like a lover, when clouds chorus unanswerable threats, when you can press your ear to the air and hear someone shuffling about on the other side. In Marathi, the word for fish bones is the same as “thorns,” and Sanika Phawde eats fish with her eyes closed like a cat. Please meet Gina Willner-Pardo at Amy’s house, so we can drive to the center of town together for the dance—and can somebody let Michael Fontana in on how much the flies blackening the windows know?