and for every grave / a firefly burns / and for every grave / Dhaka never learns
Scorching in a way the April sun never was. / Scorching in a way a fever never feels. / It wasn't just grief
And I realised: / even in the line to hell, / waiting for punishment, / we'd still reach for chanachur. / We'd still find comfort / in the crunch of survival
It would rain in the rains / And the rest of this poem would be written by someone else
Something you may... You may never find again.
My love always arrived wrapped in silence, wrapped in dust. But that was childhood.
We will make meaning out of the holes in the sun
There’s a purgatorial break between these stretches …flaxen against the lights
I am not a single name. Not a single wound.
When moon fades into dawn and when I pass away with it / Will you think of all that I was?
1 and 3/4 cups of sugar, 2 cups of i-love-you
It is enough— Enough to be here, Beneath the bulb of a wonton shop.
I know of my feeble frame of its graying at the edges.
migratory animal Are you looking for a home?
I fell asleep to the chatters of cicadas on a quiet summer night
"That’s why I have jars of jealousy, anger, sadness, monotony, but this – it’s important."
I will not even begin with the skies
When Anne Carson said– All lovers believe they are inventing love, she was perhaps right
I carry them openly in these calloused hands and hold them out to you could you tell me I'm worthy of love
