Inside
a pool forms,
slow, deep.
Like walking through a juicer, the liquid is squeezed out
Into a tall glass of sweet truth that no one can see clearly.
So the glass sits, ignored on the counter–mold forming at the edges
A tall glass filled to the brim, abandoned, spoiling, fully alone.
Sonia Chintha is an Indian American writer who lives in the Washington DC area. She blogs, writes poetry, and fiction. She is also an English teacher who believes that our experiences teach us more than any test. She is the founder and co-editor of Good Little Girls.
Since I was a sixth grader, football has confused me. Back then I pretended to care and even stayed up to watch the Redskins win
A summer thunderstorm drenched everyone on the street. A Johnny Cash song strummed from the tiny unseen speakers. A barely-there draft of wind greeted us
thirty on paper in truth, it’s twenty it’s all I have yours, ours, mine 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th and then– twenty to eat, rest, talk–