Lit Poetry

“In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing.” ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince   And the...

The way you look away. Your fingers slide past in a whirl of degradation, Idling not a moment as mine do an era. Your eyes slide past,...

When I loved eating Junk food at the age of fourteen, I would always visit this food joint close to my house. It was almost always empty, with...

I am shattered, scattered across the floor like the broken remains of my brother's glass bowl dropped on the floor after being mishandled one too many times. Beautiful...

I wonder why they brought me here, leaving me to rot in this odious jail My biggest crime: wanting justice and basic human rights India’s freedom...

Hello little map, You stamp. A reminder of that time newspaper got stuck, in the same destination and we ripped it off, At bandaid speed, Teething marks of an...

I have decided to reopen that book— the one I abandoned, early last summer, heeding the advice of Suzy and Barbara, and the New York Times reviewer who...

Writing is waking up in the middle of the night with a sentence, a beginning, hanging from your fingers, the whole story still a...

Burgundy bricks and feathers, Will always be symbols of silence to me. We lived in a house built of burgundy bricks. It was a little ranch...

In my house, a cup of tea prepared by the 17-year-old me is appreciated more than my poetry. Strange women with magnifiers instead of eyes scrutinize what I cook best and...