draw a bath.with crayons?how does one color water? clear does not do justice,the glisten of droplets on skin.I’ll draw us a bath, you said, and I sawan..

The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.

Words leap over words Trounce each other Silence survives. Time runs over time Flatten each other Memory survives. Pages pile over pages Bury each other..

There is a sunflower erupting through the simian crease of my right palm. I shed layer after layer of salty skin till the petals glow..

Some trees are male, some female; Our house had four of them, And though I circled them every day as a kid— Looking for any..

1. A man reads the newspaper as if his son would turn up on page three. The chaiwallah makes a cutting, not because a half..

As far as I can see, the trees brown beneath fall’s frost. Mother’s skin is marred by age spots as death’s knell calls frost. Forests..

The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.

There comes a point for us allwhen more peoplewe know have diedthan still live.You know that in a churchsomewhere a crowdplays Bingo while in anothera..

You should never wear stilettos, they are evil, my mother used to say. Her other life advice included, Do not wax your arms, or shape..

The Sukshma Series is a first-hand account of an educated woman of post-colonial India reflecting on how the social and political set-up of the country defined the status of an Indian woman.

(Without covering the tedious detailsthat would have to happen beforesuch a provision would be realized),since in my will I made a bequest“to found at Washington,under..

They put a robot car on Mars to take pictures of rocks.It takes quite a while for the data to come back. About my future,..

Our last bottle finishedno said my Russian friendthere are always seven drops leftseemed empty to me he holds the bottle up and waitsexactly seven dropsthere..

was not a metaphor, and I like to thinkthe weed wasn’t either, the wayit took me three monthsto smoke half an ouncebecause I had one..

He was a peddler in a horse-drawn wagon that sank beneath a load of watermelons, canary-yellow corn, bushels of gladiolas and mountains of ruby-red grapes...

To not go home in January, I will burn my new calendars, as if they were bridges. An exercise just for show? What do you..

The pink dogwood buds pop on green branch.In St. Peters church: beneath the Lucite cross, from his snowy mountain, rajastic in white,Father Conri gives a..

The credits roll and the audience applauds on their feet.The sunset’s colors bid adieu before the night cloaks the earth.The last leaf of autumn floats..

The dark climb before dawnto catch the first lightbefore it grows common.Windows rolled downto un-spelled anagramsall over night’s loose gown. Memory of an early downpourIn..

If it was true, if it was true, I would be sitting at one windowAll one morning, testing the strength of the color blue. Is..