I arose from ash––from the culmination of violent love, custody documents, and broken traditions. In my small-town’s Indian community, I was told that I came from a broken home. A girl raised by her mother has no right to believe she’s granted any value if her father hasn’t done it first. I’d read about outcasts, family turmoil, and every epic adventure that happens for a kid who doesn’t belong. But never one like me.
Author: Kiran Bains Sahota
Meadowlarks and Marigolds
There’s a meadowlark in the marigolds
Its speckled feathers caress the petals
Tinged in the yellow fabric of sunlight
Doused in the burning orange of its heat
Pandemic From California
August. The haze in the sky is thick, like a slate smog stretched thin over a blaring sun. It looks as if heat will rain. I can picture it: sizzling bolts of light touching down, the earth jittery from its touch. Some gnats collide into the glass of my window, as if they seek shelter with me.
My mother says that when I was born, I was born yellow. No doctor could tell her what my gender would be, so she ignored the pinks and blues and bundled me in my first yellow cloth.
Why She Loves the Night
Where her heart had cracked, she believed it broke. Swept away by the breezes that ruffled the wood She’d trekked through in her own front yard Her hands would slide along scarred bark Where the splinters pierced her flesh When all she’d touched was palm When she felt the pain, it didn’t stop her…
You’re at an airport. You emerge from the metal detector. No sounds. No flags. No worries. Wrong. Your hands get “randomly selected” to be checked for bomb residue. Your skin is brown. Your eyes are wide. You’re 15 and your palms face the ceiling as a pale, overbearing stranger brushes your flesh with powder. With…
The door is open. The wind howls, aching with every breath that knocks the wood against the wall. The thuds of every exhalation resound throughout the empty house. The sky rumbles, with flattened clouds that blur and drift like phantoms with no purpose. And as the rain begins to fall, there is no distinction between…
Recollection is like a sea of various shades washing on the dull gray sand of daily living. Nostalgia, or the concept of memories flooding one’s mind as they are triggered by trivial things––like cake crumbs, fine china, or even the musky scent of an old love’s cologne––is the sentimental impact of adventure come and gone…
Along the frame With heart alight I hope you too Can see the night The wisps of cloud Like orchid smoke The little suns That dance with hope Silhouettes of trees Like strokes of ink On that navy dusk From sunset’s pink The touch of chill That warms you most The sound of chirps To…