by Anuja Ghimire
in the year that I believe in anything a boy whispers in school lightning strikes parents if children lie I climb into your bed in our flat my cold back on the wall stained with rain water releases smell of cement you don’t fold me like the tucked in rupees in the elastic edge of your petticoat your breath moves in small clouds night is long and lonely without dreams death fills the room like mold I latch on the crevice of your stomach when the edge of your sari falls with the sky ____
Nepal-born Anuja Ghimire writes poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction. She is the author of Kathmandu (Unsolicited Press, 2020) and two poetry books in Nepali. A Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, she works as a senior publisher in an online learning company. She reads poetry for Up the Staircase Quarterly and enjoys teaching poetry to children in summer camps. Her work found home in print and online journals and anthologies in Nepal, U.S., Canada, Australia, the U.K., Scotland, India, and Bangladesh. She lives near Dallas, Texas with her husband and two children.