top of page

Poem #6

My Gujarat Girl

She never told me, but I knew the way she slept in mango trees and rolled over ripened fruit, a fragrant mess as she squished sticky fibers against her flesh to ensure homeostasis, viability.

Her mother would always ask: “Darling, where do the fruit flies come from?” as she bleached Gujarat guts out of creamy cloth with her roughest scrubber, scowling at stains that reminded her of something she couldn’t quite recall; a knock unanswered.


1 view0 comments

Recent Posts

See All

Poem #33

Striped I fell from a dock in the summer, split my hand open like a ripened fig, blood drip-dropping to ruddy the waves while I gulped down salty red, I swam to shore, hand raised above my head, looki

Life Update: The Big One

This year has already been so busy. Marriage. Grad School. Research Project. Promotion. And now, at last, I can put my dream on that list: Novel Publication. That’s right, ladies and gentlethems, my n


bottom of page