this poem is not for bengalis living in assam.

Meditation is synesthesia, aerate to the brain.

If I had wanted to care for a child I would’ve taken better care of myself.

Do not kill the spider, I say. It has to die, you say, as you crush it with tissue paper like it’s nothing more than a smudge of sauce

Haiwezi Kufikiwa My pockets rattle with shilingi bob, change from the kibanda where I bought fresh mango juice and chapati.

I'd Kiss Your Friendship on the Mouth There were nights we sang so loud grief couldn’t hit our bones- our faces masqueraded by dancing fir

This Country Was a Genocide

Surviving the Midwest You are not supposed to be here. This frosted plain is uninhabitable for all but the practical the stoic the strong.

Little White Flowers In My Backyard on October 1st

I’m Angry, and I Never Know What to Do About That

Dear Readers, Now is a heavy time.

Need Plants need soil and water and sunlight. Except in third grade we grew lima beans in the window in plastic baggies with only wet paper

SENTIMENT oh, that the birds would not fly south for the winter, that we were in Capistrano or at least Barbados.

NIGHT SKY I saw Orion the Hunter and he bled

Tattooing My Silence If my mind had a voice of its own

A letter to my ideal self You, girl, have got it all figured out.

Breaking point In a moment of anger at the world, disbelief that the universe has more still to throw our way, I slam my palms

‘The Great Northern Journey’ Review

Wind Heed the power and the warning of the mother winds.

/ˈkɒndɪfluːɪɑ/ noun: condifluoia; plural noun: condifluoia 1. the specific scent of tea leaves in boiling water