Author: Shazia
Mother Tongue
I am of love and roots and everything in between. As the yellow ochre of the
To the Man Who Stole My Skin
On the days when I sleep under your eyelids, I dream. I wash my crumbling face
Sea Salted Caramel
I came to the kitchenTo chop tomatoesBut my mother said,You dice them,Like rolling your fate across,A
Her Heartbeat is a Palindrome
I am a woman who, Isn’t a woman, Half woman, whole liar, Half poetry, whole halves,
Cardinals
I am Dostoyevsky’s midnight fever, And Whitman’s lakeside rambles. I am Van Gogh’s washed brush tip,
