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.

Poetry

Months short of six Raina pauses halfway through a glass of milk:

Poetry

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?

Poetry

I'm sixty. Facetious fools say that's nothing if one's young at heart, or, absurdly: Sixty's the new forty.

Poetry

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.

Poetry