Once, she positioned herself in her usual armchair next to the window, where her duvet retained its usual cocoon shape. She sat watching the empty street, the fence, the garden plot, the stump, the fossil. She went down the pink porch in her thin cotton socks to see the fossil.
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We Are The Walls
We are the walls who have stood for one hundred years and we will stand for one hundred more at the discretion of God, the weather, and those who reside inside of us. We have stood regardless of the scurryings of rodents on our backs and the people who painted our faces anew.
when your home is burning down
A poem in two parts. Pt. I I was born to this old and broken house and now it sits, aflame, and I weep. we live in a mostly burning neighborhood; we watch as we set our own fires; we know we have been swimming in gasoline since we moved in. “why are you shocked?”
If You’re a Theater Kid… (Part 1)
There are a lot of different things that people define themselves by or others define them by, regardless of whether they are right or wrong (of course it is a question, if it’s even possible to have a “right” or “wrong” definition of a person). But despite stereotypes or characterizations of people, one thing that
What home has meant.
I do not remember the time or the place. It might have been Bangalore, Kolkata, Shillong, Chennai, Mussoorie, or Berlin. It might have been at a park, a mall, a wedding, a hospital, or even at a bar. Despite the many possibilities, there was always a time when certain places would generate an awkward reaction