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Essays by Aimee Nezhukumatathil
More than the Birds, Bees, and Trees: A Closer Look at Writing Haibun
Postcards: Advice to a Young Poet
The Poetry of Superstition and Supposition
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by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

I don't mean when a movie ends,
as in, it's a! Nor tortillas splitting
with the heavy wet of bean.
And I don't mean what you do

with your lavender robe all fluff
and socks to snatch the paper
from the shrubs. Nor the promise
of a gift, the curl and furl of red ribbon

just begging to be tugged. What I mean
is waiting with my grandmama (a pause
in the Monsoon) at the Trivandrum airport
for a jeep. Her small hand wraps

again the emerald green pallu of her sari
tucked in at her hips, across her breast, 
and coughs it up over her shoulder a hush
of paprika and burnt honey across my face.

From Miracle Fruit by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Copyright © 2003 by Aimee Nezhukumatathil. Reprinted by permission of Tupelo Press. All rights reserved.
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