top of page


Uncanny Magazine
6 September 2022
Speculative Poetry


 komarika (that you may find solace when spurned, your fingers searing supernova around the perimeter of diyas; that even when clay ceases to calm you will be caressed; that when you ride

to battle there will be balm
keeping vigil in the tent;

that your hair will grow back

as often as you blade it stark

to your skull in mourning,

in mutiny, in signaling beacons and transports of joy—

Strange Horizons
14 March 2022
Speculative Poetry


now that the last unstaked earth

we can claim is the triangle wedged beneath fore and hind wheels

I burn with hunger for cremation knowing

you will feed my embers to the chassis

at night and gather me close

in the oil-choked morning

and not be imprisoned for littering

and I will do the same for you. 

Uncanny Magazine
1 March 2022
Speculative Poetry


Every day you leave

I think about leaving you

and Chaya from Marketing says

Marie why don’t you bring your man 

to the borrels anymore

and Chaya’s sisters are shifters

and I could tear the plowed fields apart with them for miles after work and dark

and you’d never notice.

Issue 131, November 2021


Their names surround me now, both the ones they have given me and the ones I have given them as protection, each one a cup infused with so many strains of tea: emotions, adjectives, the whole of the Holy Bible. Their names mean leader, shield, blessed, and pure; their names mean beautiful, Sheba, queen, and joy. They have names that sing of silk, of fabric rustling over red terracotta floors, of ancestors commanding endure; they have names passed down from Noah, over eons and oceans, through infinite worlds. 

Sky Island Journal,
Issue 18, October 2021 

The Tamil script is an abugida,

like Amharic, like Sinhala;
it slips through my fingers faster

than grains of Jaffna sand.
There are no words in any of my tongues for everything I want to say.

1 September 2021 

I have been justifying, as so many of us do, my actions and my life after the fact. When in fact none of it is relevant, because I wasn’t the one who put all this in motion. But that’s how we’re trained, isn’t it? That’s how we’re raised. I’ve provided the background, Your Honour. Now let me present the facts of the case.

Issue 9, Summer 2021 


Could you believe I knew every song

they played on the tannoy

in those thirteen minutes –

Oasis and John Denver and Bob Dylan and the ghost of my grandfather

sipping arrack in his gardening clothes

listening to Gold FM,

right before the soldier-nurse asked me

do you have a fear of needles.

SAGA Vol. 84, May 2021 
3rd Place, SAGA Prose Award


The kanji hangs over my head and weaves itself into my dreams. 忍/shinobu/endure. It’s an eighth-century Japanese ideogram, rendered in thick brush strokes on an A5 canvas daubed to look like parchment; my little sister and I painted it together, one of the last things we would share before the coronavirus pandemic trapped us on opposite sides of the globe. 

SAGA Vol. 84, May 2021
1st Place, SAGA Poetry Award


America is burning, smoke bombs

and teargas,

and my best friend’s head is haloed

by fluffy black curls,

and I switch off the stove

and sit by the unlocked door until

he knocks rings the doorbell texts me knocks again,

because he’s remembered too.

SAGA Vol. 83, May 2020
1st Place, SAGA Poetry Award
Barbara Anderson Miller Award

Today I am wearing my grandmother’s hands. Here are her flaking pores, dandruff-dry, her bruise-dark knuckles, her pink-leathered palms, bereft of oil, curled at the end of my arms.

SAGA Vol. 83, May 2020
1st Place, SAGA Prose Award

I’m in a landlocked naval base two hundred miles from my hometown and all the people who know my signals are oceans away, scattered across four continents. I eat and say thank you and keep my food down and I know there are unknown men in the corner of every room, but they’re soldiers, so I can’t even track their footsteps.

SAGA Vol. 83, May 2020

 Look into them and everything disappears except the sky, bleu de triomphe, the spirits of souls. Raise your head; the benedictions fall into you. Schmetterlingsküse. You haven’t seen butterflies in aeons but here they are now in their jeweled millions, Jezebel and the Leopard and the Ceylon Tiger, parantica taprobana, not to be confused with the Tamil Tiger, winging across the island to Samanalakanda, where the Buddha's footprint appears at sunrise.



Fall 2019

Butterflies, Crossroads, The Universe: Answers I've Found In Amsterdam

When the boat docks in the Oudezijds Voorburgwal, it’s begun to rain. The captain hands passengers up out of the canal, bidding each one a merry Goedenacht! I pull up my hood and wend my way through De Wallen, towards the bright lights of Prins Hendrikkade. My Dutch friends avoid this part of Amsterdam, but it's one of my favourite neighbourhoods to spend a last evening; slipping through narrow alley-streets, boots ringing on rain-slick cobblestones, watching for new wonders around every corner. 

Club Plum Literary Journal
Volume 3, Issue 4,
14 October 2022
Prose Poetry


It was quiet until the fountain turned off. Then, it deafened, then you opened the eyes in the back of my head. It’s been too long, you said, I’ve missed our conversations.

Strange Horizons
15 August 2022
Speculative Fiction


“Please,” the voice begged again, and this time there was something terribly familiar about how it wisped at the edges. You turned and Hailé was hunched by the counter, holding the Rift in his bare stomach together with his hands. Blue memory fluid, almost but not quite the shade of an April sky over the paddy fields, flowed through his fingers and down his sarong before coiling away through the ankle-deep water.

Cartridge Lit
26 May 2022


Rampart is everyone

I’m scared you imagine after I leave
so stereotypically brash, so phenotypically neat, the East India Company vowels
so freshly unboxed, so unlike my IRL tongue that can’t untangle w and v
because my language will soon be too extinct to earn subtitles.

Off Assignment
13 December 2021
Flash Nonfiction


In this neighborhood, every building is a jewel box, windows flung wide; we don’t believe in curtains, my Dutch friends tell me, because we have nothing to hide.

Random Sample Review
Issue 6, October 2021
Flash Nonfiction


You knee-walk off the bed and wear his slippers into the bathroom. The boys in the house have no toilet paper and the way Fox is telling it, neither does anyone else in the state. 

Sky Island Journal,
Issue 18, October 2021 

  1. Do your nails pink like smoked tilapia

  2. Does the hair on your knuckles 

  3. Does the sleight of the pen weigh

  4. Does the underbelly of your lips

Issue 10, Autumn 2021 
Flash Nonfiction

Our next-door neighbor wields incense to ward off mosquitoes. Every evening she circles her yard carrying a copper saucer of benzoin, boiled down to the consistency of treacle. The smell stays with us forever after the first inhalation; it clings to clothes, hair, sinuses.

Issue 9, Summer 2021 

I am cracked leaf skin the wrong shade of brown decaying under thermals and socks and camisoles and sweaters and tights and jeans and lingerie and leather and hats and scarves and gloves and if you wanted to peel me into pieces it would take you longer than it would to build an igloo outside the dormitory ice piled on ice piled on ice fingers losing all feeling and so disappearing –

Club Plum Literary Journal,
Vol. 2, Issue 3, July 2021 
Flash Nonfiction


Afternoon sunlight. A radiance through the stand on the opposite bank, startling the snow into iridescence, sequins embedded wherever the light touches. Promises and gold. There’s a science to it, but you’ve forgotten.

Vasquez-Valarezo Award 2021
1st Place

You said, “I’m risking my life to do this,”

and then you asked me to name

your activist Instagram page.

           kilometres away

your people were being massacred

and who was I to say no?

Somewhere in               

a soldier wiped down his bayonet;

his friends holstered their smartphones.

Sky Island Journal,
Issue 16, April 2021

Flash Fiction

No one told me that the spirit against whom I would have to guard would be a woman with skin as smooth as a ripe brinjal, that her hair would be braided tighter than the ropes of my fishing nets, that she would speak a language older than Sinhala and I would understand her anyway.

SAGA Vol. 83, May 2020

On a hilltop in Gelderland

you look south over the river and say

apparently on clear days

you can see all the way to Nijmegen

but I don't think that's true. 


Vasquez-Valarezo Award 2019
1st Place

They are everything, these raw tearing words that could have been written for you, 

and you had to come here, red lipstick smeared on the lip

of the mug you drained to ease

that down-deep clench

and something is happening.

Red draped around you like a flag.


SAGA Vol. 82, May 2019
2nd Place, SAGA Poetry Award

The world unfolds

in a Rock Island coffee shop.

Maroc, France, Deutschland, Italia.

You make December pilgrimages

to your mother’s country.

I eye your charcoal curls

and the length of your lashes 

as you talk of Rajasthan

and traversing the Ganges.


SAGA Vol. 82, May 2019
Barbara Anderson Miller Award 2019
3rd Place, SAGA Prose Award

 I am standing in a Hobby Lobby parking lot, thinking of Aththi. The sky is an enormous blue, cross-stitched with jet trails from planes so high that I have no chance of hearing them. The light, though, is the same gold that gilds Aththi when he walks down the drive to close the gate for the evening. Time zone math insists that this event has already happened eleven hours ago, eighteen thousand kilometers away, but let me now imagine him, standing at the gate.

bottom of page