A. Anupama

Thread :: thought

Even then we were direct and
in the sun, waiting for the silence
of her back to turn against this wheel.
She noted the husks and seeds.
All evident in her look like grass—
dull green blossoms at the tips of smile.
The spare-tire continuum turns hovel
whenever we duck back inside,
back to the back of the margin
wheeling black into the blueness of bored.


The race to the top of zero moves
lightning quick and drowns in cloud
before anyone can award a prize.

They thought we knew this, and, thinking,
caught the cottonwood seeds before
the thought could settle on our window screens.

Afterthought clouds flash mob
the angry mountain shouting at zero,
why didn’t you duck, why didn’t you

didn't you subtract three from three


I didn’t blink, did you? If this is really being livestreamed someone must keep talking, so we keep talking, we were talking just in case. I didn’t notice if you blinked because I didn’t blink when my eyes rolled back then, singing, singing in their usual obscure blue whale dialect. Did you think while singing salt?

Past Tripura

we have set our minds on fire
so that we can be suns too

burning-bushed faces taste the color of jasmine
because that is the color of the leak

a masked bird walks the railing
back and forth with two fledglings behind
beaks open
fluttering their wings
they hop into the mouths of our eyes
and your scent razes
tender arcs of food from the sky

open our mouths
as though it were of the ground

My friend says

“All the things I want
are killing me.” Then steadfast
glance across menu
wants the wanting back into
its quiet cave behind eyes.

My moon says

“You’re going to wake the stars up NOW?”

“Yes. They can’t miss your double-dutch stunt. Just go. Don't worry, they won’t fuss.”

“Okay, whatever you say, Day.” Rolls eyes.

“They’ll wake up for a few minutes and think they are dreaming. How beautiful, right? Go get your high-tech sneakers on.” Untangles the last remaining knot.

“What if I trip? They’ll cry. I’ll be a bad dream.”

“You won’t trip. I told the rope twirlers to keep to the beat you know, the one you know when you sleep with your eyes open a tiny bit. Anyway, they’ve always wanted to see you jump.”

A. Anupama

A. Anupama is a U.S.-born, Indian-American poet and translator whose work has appeared in several literary publications, including Fourteen HillsThe Bitter Oleander, and CutBank. She studied at Northwestern University and Vermont College of Fine Arts, where she received her MFA in writing in 2012. Currently a contributing writer at Numéro Cinq Magazine, she lives in Nyack, New York, and blogs at seranam.com.