The luck of a red-eye makes you wonder if it is a delusion you’re experiencing from a lack of sleep, or if this is that “God” that they speak of, entertaining himself at the expense of your confusion and misery.
The summer before college, Sarwat moved to Texas. It was a small miracle that she was able to convince them to stay put through the end of high school. Her parents wasted no time packing up after graduation.
I find myself walking a paved road in the middle of a baraat, a groom’s wedding procession. It resembles a parade that will eventually pour through a small Indian village leading to a clearing where the bride and her family wait.
Elizabeth Bishop very infrequently presents an uncritical or one-sided examination of any idea; her poems are filled with slight contradictions, subtle reversals, and moments of irony that force the reader to engage intimately with the material being described in order to find meaning.
My face and my head pulse, and so does the radio. I’m losing track of time, but I can tell that we’re close to the beach when the police officer stops us—the ceaseless strip of road has gone satisfyingly gritty with sand.
“How am I supposed to connect to you, or anyone, if I don’t even know who I am!” I shouted as she slammed the door behind me. I left my girlfriend’s apartment in Spanish Harlem that rainy September night feeling strangely liberated.
Sitting on an airplane, suspended somewhere over the gulf of Mexico, I stared numbly at the shapes and shadows flitting over the eight-inch screen in front of me —one I had thoroughly disinfected with a Wet One®. I wondered, was …