Put away
the unread messages
& unopened drinks
& can openers that
you’ll never use
in drawers next to chutneys
bubble-wrapped from India
& that one gifted chopstick
that lost its second half.
Lift
your lettuce high & look
underneath the glass for
signs of rot. Make chai on
an open stove, heat the milk, do not
let it bubble over, spill,
& leave its curdled skin
curling in each room corner.
Finish
your sentences like spinach.
Remember that once, you
wore sandals, & were happiest
lying to your family in a different
tongue, & woke
with your dreams
& your parents’ in perfect
synchrony: like the
model universe they hung
above your cradle, blessing
you to use whatever
tricks hung within your
belly to eat the watching
stars.
Disha Trivedi currently divides her time between New Zealand and Northern California. She graduated from Harvard College with a degree in biology. Her poetry has been published in The Big Windows Review, Rogue Agent, and elsewhere. Her prose has been published in The Women’s Issue, an anthology curated by the Harvard Advocate.
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