Three Poems by Anita Patel
Updated: Mar 4
On Our Way to Missouri
There is nothing to spy except for blue skies &
old videos of monkey-pudgy babies sitting on a box
of soon-to-be-sold cigarettes. My veins feel too real
on the insides of my body. Now, in biodatas, people
list their blood type as well—perhaps they are looking
for positivity on the inside too. I look up fudge recipes
longingly—imagine how the chocolate would shift and
slip in a pot in the car, make heavenly drops clot the
floor of the new spacious van. We would have to hold
the wooden mixing spoon and cup the sugar in our
palms. I read poetry and think of writing my own,
but all I can focus on is the idea of falling asleep
with lips just inside my own, so even through sleepy
mumblings, I can impress poetry on the insides of
Terms of Endearment for No One In Particular
You are the bright puff of pixie dust that makes
fairies fly, you are the jingle of bells on a kathak
dancer’s feet. You are the peak of sunrise on the
days of morning writing, the hands that press warmth
into me when I am cold. You are the video of the little
girl asking storks if she can have a baby sister & telling
her mother she still isn’t getting one. You are the taste
of coffee made in milk with just the right amount of sugar.
You are the colors of the sky. You are the cloud of
cinnamon dust that rests gently, on my tongue.
You are every strand of hair on top of a little boy’s head.
You are the first sip of mama’s daal in the blue-dark winters.
You are the sunbeams that make diamonds appear on walls,
the artifacts of living I find in my friend’s homes. You are the
sparkle that ladies spread on their rosy cheeks; you are the sunshine
on a rainy, rainy day.
Here Comes the Sun, Little Darling
In February, sometimes, it feels like it was
yesteryear since we saw the last light.
The only light we have seen has been colored in
hazed blues and solid grays; sheets of ice falling
from trees as if they were crying, paperweights
made of little leaves and twigs
the models of ice sculptures.
Even in all this Blueness, I have faith that the
sun will return to us.
When it comes,
We will celebrate its arrival once again.
We will stretch in the morning and smile at the
sky, we will flip pancakes with the fluorescent
lights off and the windows open to birdsong, we
will hum a Beatles song and think of being
awestruck by crystals and perfumes and bright
mothers; we will laugh yellow and we will
dance in puddles of sunlight, singing,
Hello, little sun,
Oh how we have missed you.
Anita Patel is an undergraduate student completing her bachelor's degree at the University of Kansas. She enjoys writing poetry that uplifts others, arranging flowers to bring color into people's days, and lighting candles wherever she goes. She believes that one of humanity's greatest powers is friendship. Most importantly, she believes there is magic to be found in most all places, so long as you look closely for it. Her twitter handle is @supposeiloveyou.