Three Poems by Anita Patel

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

someone’s teeth.

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.