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Who Gets to Take Up Space? Women, Desire and the Ordinary in All We Imagine as Light
This essay is adapted from the introduction I presented at Rialto/Griffioen for a screening of Payal Kapadia’s All We Imagine as Light. I had the privilege of introducing the film and wanted to offer the audience a few ideas to carry with them into the screening: about women and the city, migration and home, intimacy,…
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Exception, By Another Name: answering some frequently asked questions about my identity
Today the state writes my name with a borrowed pen. Not the pen kept in velvet for lost inheritance certificates, but a pen found in the bottom of a drawer: a little cracked, ink clotted around the nib, the kind you warm with your breath to make it move. They call it citizenship by an…
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London, in the Heat of Memory and Change
The city arrived first as a smell—Hot brick dust and the faint iron taste of the Underground, mingling with the ghost of diesel and rain. The kind of smell that makes you feel you’ve lived here before. London in July and August—it pretends to be gentle with you, lets the sun linger longer on your…
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The Beauty of Soft Living: Spring Insights
It’s spring again. The city wears green like a second skin, delicate and a little uncertain. Trees push out shy leaves, the wind smells of thawed dreams, and the light, so tentative at first, spills gold onto surfaces that had forgotten how to gleam. Everything is becoming. And maybe—so am I. I’ve been thinking lately…
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Unmothering the Mind: Demented Mothers in Literature and Theory
“I do not know which to prefer,the beauty of inflectionsor the beauty of innuendoes,the blackbird whistlingor just after.”— Wallace Stevens, Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird The mother who forgets is often feared. She is no longer the custodian of the domestic archive, no longer the ground of the child’s stability or the embodiment…
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What to Do with All This Poetry?
Some days, it gathers in my throat like an unspoken prayer. Other days, it sprawls across the margins of meeting notes, bleeding into the white space between obligations. Poetry, in all its reckless abundance, arrives unannounced. It stands at the door like a lover who refuses to leave, or like a stray cat who has…
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My Transcendental Truth
Having recently given a guest lecture in Dr. Laura Rupp’s class on Translanguaging and Transnationalism, my mind kept going back to this old poem I had written: To tell you the truth Upon walking into an airport My body somehow becomes a machine Mechanical with nuts and bolts A system I cyclically follow My head…
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They hand you a box
They hand you a boxFour neat lines joined at supremely perfect right anglesYour body, rounded at the edges, pliable, more flesh than muscleSqueezing yourself into shape you triumph, look you say, I fitSkin compacted into nothingnessCells harnessed to behave One day, unexpectedly you spill outOver the edges, across the linesMass dictating it’s ruleslook they say,…
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When a poem is written like a telegram addressing a painting…
I am putting it on my agenda to feed the mind everyday with things of beauty, insightful words, and objects that inspire thought. It is an informal resolution for 2020, which so far has gone reasonably well. Recently, I read Sharon Olds’ Poem in the Form of a Telegram to Someone Looking at Henri Rousseau’s…
