Hi my dear,

How are you doing? Is it summer where you are? How are you spending your days? Have you been getting enough rest?

I am sitting in one of my favourite coffee shops in Knoxville, in my usual spot by the window, watching people walk their dogs, cars passing by, the sky welcoming a storm, as I sip on my raspberry blush latte. Decaf, because it’s 5:40 pm and I am not brave to risk the consumption of caffeine this late.

It’s been almost a month since I have been in Knoxville, surrounded by the people and places that love me, and it is wondrous to me to realise how different, how relieving this feels. I remember travelling to different cities during my grad program and every time I returned to Knoxville, I needed at least a week to recover from the grief of losing out on the things I witnessed elsewhere. I thought that was a common phenomenon, until I moved to Michigan, and no matter how amazing my trips were, heaved a sigh of relief to be back home. Perhaps it was my living situation, stress of graduate school, absence of a safe space, etc etc. But the important takeaway here is that, now, even with sheets covered in dog hair and floors marked with paw prints, I took a long, hot shower last night and finally relaxed, grateful to be home.

My heart is full from the weekend I spent with my love, and Josie and Piero in Atlanta, walking through bamboo forests, stepping in mud puddles, maneuvering through flooding stairs, being enchanted by the vastness of green beyond and above us. We then went to Chai Pani, one of my fav spots in Decatur, ate our weight, had the BEST mango lassi ever, talked to each other about our expectations as children, albums that send a chill down our spines, and our heroes growing up. We then went to the market square where we lay on grass for a while, wind kissing our faces, even when a man was singing horribly a few steps away. It was perfect.

I then spent Saturday at the farm, playing with dogs, riding on an ATV, eating from Applebee’s for the first time, watching Chak De! India with my partner’s parents, and drinking grape Kool Aid. OH! I also finally found lychees here and screamed in delight. We splurged in the Atlanta farmer’s market and it was worth every single penny.

On Sunday morning, I made them Paneer Paratha and Upma for breakfast, and we had the sweetest mangoes afterward. On our way back, we drove through the Smoky Mountains National Park and were stupefied by the grandiose mountains, how kind they are to us. The sunlight peeking between the rows of pine trees, listening to 2010s Bollywood music, holding hands, I felt so much love and joy in those moments, and I am carrying that feeling with me through the summer. Hope you can feel it, too.

Some news –

I reviewed Saba Keramati’s incredible book, Self-Mythology, in Poetry Northwest: What's The Difference Between a Person and a Prayer?: On Saba Keramati's Self-Mythology

Word bank:

i love your in-between moments/ my best friends fostering a baby husky/ you are everything to me/ coldplay puppet video/ I'm Glad My Mom Died audiobook/ gumbo and wings/ shawarma and fattoush that emily made for us/ Bring her back/ catherine gave me korean sunscreen and explained the difference between UVA and UVB/ abhay brought us matka kulfi/ gyro sandwich and sweet potato waffle fries in clayton

Find your poem:

• “Forever Elegy” by Adam Tavel

The night my father squeezed my throat and held

me dangling at the wall our thermostat’s

ancient paint-flecked dial dug in my ear.

Behind him in the living room the sludge

from boots he laced so tight I couldn’t budge

left snowy prints across the shag. I once felt

a magisterial restraint, some glad

and fixed relief when Brueghel’s hunters cleared

the ridge to mark their blizzard village snug

below them in the valley. But now their caps

soaked through with ice, their rib-thin hounds, no stags

across their shoulder blades are all I see.

They’re never down. They pant like wolves. He leaves

them high and breathless still. He lets them freeze.

• “Between Grace and Mercy” by I.S. Jones

we learned mercy so young: a beetle with its hind legs crushed.

a dog impaled by a rusty fence. a rabbit thinking it was clever enough

to reach the other side of the road. a veil of light drapes each moment—

red, tangerine, azure, lavender, each waiting to reimagine the sky.

the beetle frantic to undo what sudden brute force divided it from legs

still moving towards a song. with the beetle, it was simple.

Cain crushed the small creature with the heel of her foot, splayed open like a wish.

people think suffering is meant to be purposeful, otherwise why name it.

maybe i am nostalgic for what wounds best. the rabbit & tire & the asphalt.

the asphalt gowned in viscera makes a new animal. a dog leaps too low &

yelps all evening for Baba into the orange-pink sky.

all day blood weeps into the rust. rust twisted deep into the animal.

i take the dog’s face in my hands. touch is the body’s first language.

blood is the body’s first covenant. kill it, says a sister.

you kill animals all the time. i kiss the animal’s eyes closed.

• “Duplex (I begin with love)” by Jericho Brown

I begin with love, hoping to end there.

I don’t want to leave a messy corpse.

I don’t want to leave a messy corpse

Full of medicines that turn in the sun.

Some of my medicines turn in the sun.

Some of us don’t need hell to be good.

Those who need least, need hell to be good.

What are the symptoms of your sickness?

Here is one symptom of my sickness:

Men who love me are men who miss me.

Men who leave me are men who miss me

In the dream where I am an island.

In the dream where I am an island,

I grow green with hope. I’d like to end there.

• Excerpt from “Small Essays on Disappearance” by J. Mae Barizo

The child's face is parallel

to mine, too small still

to know the performance

that is Madison Avenue

wearing tennis whites for

breakfast, men with pocket

squares and bleached front

teeth, white gold bangles

on thin wrists, my wrist

is small and scarred, I spy

stretch marks, curving

staircases and white marble

parquet. "What exactly does

bi-racial mean?" the child asks

black olive eyes peering up

at mine. That your father

is white your mother is not

and you have inherited a dark

church of brown hands.

• “Migrant Life” by Paloma Chen (Translated by Julia Conner)

The hyenas peer through the window. Their favorite

pornography is misery. I hug myself and touch the

veins on my belly. There where life has said

here I will germinate, toward your mouth and I will kiss

your entire face. I will massage your calves. I will

help you, mom, get your digital certificate

and buy you a North Face jacket. I want

to welcome you to the abundance of my

belly. I need to convince myself you are not

the fruit of my selfishness, that the world really

misses you, even if it does not yet know you. I am on

the other side of the ocean. I too once had

a mother and father. I no longer remember where they are

buried, but today I see them in your eyes. And

from today on I am no longer alone. I have never been alone.

I will sit you on my lap and sing you songs

in the language spoken by the women who came

before us and even if you do not speak it,

my daughter, when you hear it you will remember

there will always be a home. No matter how far it may be,

because it is true that it is as far as the

memories of father and mother. Even though I know

you will study all the world's languages ​​because

you'll want to speak with the living and the dead

to seek advice about the odor of sulfur and

danger, about whether to improve our accent,

about why strangers have no warmth

in their gaze, about the material abundance of

this proclaimed Global North, about if

we are wasting our life in a land

of filth, life, impure life, mixed life,

hybrid life, polluted life, rich life,

filtered life, aching life, extinguished life,

life alight, life in ecstasy, motionless life,

down rooted life, sacred life, migrant life,

wounded life, migrant life, wounded life,

open life, closed life

migrant life

Other recommendations aka things I loved:

• A live performance that made me sob: Jacob Collier & Chris Martin - Fix You

• A Book I am reading (recommended by my dear friend Josie)

  • Tampa by Alissa Nutting – review | Fiction | The Guardian

Popsicles, bagel sandwiches, and hamburgers,

Shlagha <3