SUPRITHA RAJAN
Leave No Trace
There was no going forward, only going
back.
There was no going forward, only going
back.
I know nothing about the history
of mirrors.
How is it that I work so hard to find elegance and taste?
It’s the color I notice
first.
I have spoken poorly of my father
No one watches when my lover
picks me up & carries me to a bench
How can I tell this barrel-chested jogger,
This charming intruder
I think my hands may fall off like peonies
Here on the porch, I let the black
cat rub its soft body on my leg
Her poems have appeared in The New Quarterly, Contemporary Verse 2, Arc, Grain, PRISM,