Nadia Choudhury

the way in which you open the front door, the welcome you give a stranger, your smile, the fill of your dining table–it is your lips upturned when it rains, and you don’t have an umbrella–poetry expands, explores, finds thought in the gap between the stove and the counter, the rumble two-seconds-too-long when you turn the ignition–the aar ki? you toggle during the day–read it between the dishes and laundry, feel it in the sensation of cool sheets when you slip under.

The point is: you are living it now.