e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the full piece)
The children play a game of hide-and-seek. Are these earthworms
hiking up for air? You feel them on your back.
In Keats, she finds all
the lengths of countryside she wants, unfurling yards of cloth.
This is mine, she says, holding her sari to her face.
The Photographer's Escape
What do they want
so close to me where I can see the blood string
in their eyes, reticulate?
Dev, he calls me
Will he smoke
or brood? Either way, he leaves ash
on everything, always an explosion.