Patterns
she thought, now i am not a mother/not a wife, but force, annihilation/havoc and ruin
she thought, now i am not a mother/not a wife, but force, annihilation/havoc and ruin
Listen to the gravel and see how each/clink of glass finds a beat in my starving/heart.
The moon could be with me/like an old lover,/but romance is dead,/so I must stay awake,/alone.
Our bodies give us away, regardless of what we wear or how we behave outwardly; our bodies give us away because we can’t breathe until we step foot inside our safe spaces.
TMS co-editor, Zahra Hamdulay, interviews artist Alexandra Gallagher about her creative process.
Even as they are engulfed in the vast and bleak pits of sorrow, women are to prioritize their izzat and the delicacy of the khandaani ties over the vacancy and wrath in their own selves—to remain quiet against their will when someone complains about the lack of aloo in their biryani, about the chai being too cold.
After supper/he sang to her. Even/the dog listened.
my nose is sitting in the centre/of this poem like a prey waiting/to be devoured
A haiku.
first morning together/he asks for/sugar