Lately, the blood I carry feels like the story of everything.

During communal riots in Gujarat, a Hindu woman battles against a self-percieved threat from a Muslim co-passenger.

It was the winter of my life. Afternoons, / I watched light fade / from the faces of brownstones.

What learning Russian in Latvia taught me about history, politics, and figures of speech.

The poet discusses the risks of false comparisons, objectification, and the need for distance.

It was the Professional Package that did it, that made Vero leave. She never said that directly, but that’s when we started falling apart.

Not even children who brave the street / Will notice the robins, mistaking them for nightingales.

Motherland was something without content or form, something utterly abstract — something that, in relation to a country like this, could only occupy the minds of those who’d never had it.

A blind man takes us along on his way to the sea.

When we die, / the cemetery keeper tires / of surveilling our graves’ windows.