Poetry

Rescuing my parents is not something they prepared me for in school. Nor in television shows, nor in the books I have been poring over for decades — and there are rather a lot of them, covering subjects as varied as the human condition, the collapse of civilisations, and the precise etiquette of afternoon tea (yes, I wasted a few hours on that last one), none of which, it turns out, contain a chapter on this. It arrives not as a single moment but as a cascade, settling over e

I have known this cold long enough to stop calling it pain. I open myself to look. The ballast I cannot shed — my own marrow, pulling me down. I am a wanderer, lost in a sea of others, tethered to emotions pulled about by currents. Vanquished by determination, conquered by hatred. I often wonder if it is my fault. Everything freezes. I evacuate myself, turning to examine the shell. The nine, each distinct, mapped across my face like a text I could finally read. And there it i

I owe nothing to anyone. I once laid my heart Bare, beating, beautiful Open in the way only the unscathed can be The quiet contracts nobody signs Pure hatred Time and time again Failure, strangely liberating Success, its own estrangement Success meant leaving myself Failing, even, at my own undoing The heart still remains It beats a little slower Pieces gone One assumes they grow back With every new hand Gripping mine Reclaiming what remained I stand again, grasping the white

A reflection on creative paralysis and the longing to dive back into the ocean of imagination.

The little dot girl was confused at the abnormality of her muddy soil. The twisting of tongue and vein posed a dilemma: could the turmeric stains on a white shirt survive ketchup bottles and kool aid? Mother says, The arduous ordeal of abstaining from our country is not worth the pepper pricks that start salty seas. The little girl was shocked at the normalcy of ignorance. Elephant imprints were common in the jungle of illiteracy; books spoke of fiery sacrifices — saris swa

The wardrobe refuses to budge. No matter how hard I pull at the knobs, The glue has settled into its pores. A splinter lodges in my thumb, Evoking a glistening bead of red that mixes with the salt from my brows. I was told a wardrobe was the portal to slip the chains that bound my thoughts. A whirlpool of gray and brown that cannot be sculpted into a vase full of peonies. Roses. Lilacs and daffodils. Yellows and greens swirl together into the blurry, harmonious image of a

The turmeric stain seeped into the fibers of a white cotton shirt hugging the ridges and hollows of her hourglass frame. It threatened the fragile peace of starch-white against almond skin. The shroud hid the pores of salt and spice and blinded lentil eyes with the stark weight of realism in a surreal world of freedom.

Death is a funny end, threatening to close our biographies — a plot twist no one edits. Death is a funny end — threatening to close our biographies mid-sentence, mid-thought, while we’re still revising the draft. Death is a funny end. It threatens to close our biographies, but all it really does is remind us how many chapters we never finished.

I am no poet But when the rain pours freely Drenching an upturned face And the heartbeat slows Synchronizing with the pitter patter Of god’s lifeblood I can’t help but think That in another lifetime I too, Was free to engulf the world In a sin-washing tide

I am more than my culture yet I am nothing more than my culture The British arrived and left But forgot to take their sneers with them The Americans fought and conquered But forgot the people of this land We came We saw And we resigned ourselves to living A lie fabricated Designed to fit snugly A white mask, textbook hidden behind Shaking our heads Yes, no, and something in between

The tortoise and the hare were best friends. Inseparable. One day, the hare realized the top of a shrub was within reach —but the tortoise could only touch the roots. Still, they were best friends. The next day, the hare’s pace quickened, leaving the tortoise behind in her world. And still, they remained best friends.

The wooden drum rolled down the hill, enjoying the feeling of the wind against its fibers. Branches brushed past, striking the drum, Creating a melody that resonated with the heartbeat below. Reaching the cliff's edge, the drum paused -- Was the feeling of liftoff worth the plummet to destruction? Resigning itself to the monotony of safety, the barrel froze in place, surveying the sea of lights below. Fibers began to snap and bend as the crate inched its way down the slippery