Grandma’s Secret Kitchen Stories: Prose Poetry

The kitchen is the heart of the house. Come inside. The waft of the tadka is playing hide and seek with hungry wind nymphs. The fluttering pages of Grandma’s secret recipes are singing siren songs alluring little girls with mermaid braids.

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Five More Minutes, Mama: Prose Poetry

Five more minutes, Mama, I am caught in a happy dream.
Five more minutes, Mama,  I am telling the moon stories of comfort in your old dupattas and warmth in your vegetable soup.
Five more minutes, Mama, I am building a pillow fort of your childhood dreams.
Five more minutes, Mama, the jungle of my dreams has marigold smiles and a baby shampoo advertisement that says, “no more tears leaking moonlight.” You will like it here, Mama.

Hey, Mama, if you are happy in a dream, does that count?

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Mourning Idealism: Prose Poetry

Nothing prepares you for the ache of mourning. I am mourning my idealism today, trying to hold onto the ideals in a quicksand hug while reality grapples me like an inseparable birthmark. The trajectory of growing up is learning how to make a coral museum of grief inside the wormholes of your heart. Unable to build a Lego bridge where your idealism kisses your reality, unable to write yourself a soft epilogue.

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commonsensiblyspeaking

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