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To my mother who never wrote The poems she always wanted to write I return, and forever pine to return For the hearth she houses in her heart.
PHILOSOPHY WITH RAINA
Months short of six Raina pauses halfway through a glass of milk:
On a plane at Doha airport I?m clueless, a tense voyager, fumbling the cold buckle next to a black hijab-clad, blue track-suited looking over her shoulders, for the pounce of a tiger the crawling stealth, the fatal leap Who is she?
I'm sixty. Facetious fools say that's nothing if one's young at heart, or, absurdly: Sixty's the new forty.
I was the middle child in a middle-class family In a middle-income country Through the middle of modernism During the middle of a Marxist movement.
was published in November 2016
THERE IS A LIZARD ON THIS BUS
Weary, at the end of your day, you enter an evening bus. You attach seamlessly ...
SHOOTING AT SHARKS
In the summer of 1966 we went by ship from East Pakistan to West Pakistan. We ...
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