Press return to see results
This rhythm is to us what the blues is to you.
The navel lint warming a cold index feels me.
Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away
into the far corner between sleep and waking.
He removed himself with his hands, an effort not unnoticed.
People threw shells, congotronic drumming looped
from. . .
Two parallel women, millennia apart, whose carefully acquired beauty made them patriarchy’s ideal targets.
Government e-learning programs lay bare India's digital divide.
“Indian Matchmaking” shows the pressures to compromise, and to climb the social ladder.