The flowers are still on the table,
the ones I so hastily purchased to brighten this place of mine
because those colors, they will break up this block of ice that’s burning my feet
but I couldn’t even place them in water—couldn’t give them their most basic need, couldn’t do for them
for I haven’t, haven’t been doing for me—my most basic need.
So they are dying.
slowly, a soft yielding death
while I, I remain standing on this frozen block,
feet numb.
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.
What you don’t see is that one inch needle I inject into the skin of my belly every Saturday: the counting to three, the self-talks
A matrix of lines stare back at me–a list of endless possibilities for a day of discovery. My feet my only transportation; oh glorious liberty: