by Anuja Ghimire

A wintry Texas morning, I wait for the sun
The full moon, a star, or two by the window
Golden Pothos I’ve tended to since July
Leans closer and closer to me by the window
A quiet neighbor’s roof is a leaf’s fall away
I never see her when I dream by the window
The tips of leaves are thirsty every two days
They cry a single drop of rain by the window
As I etch words to prove that I lived
My elbow shakes, the desk earthquake by the window
My children crash on my lap and caress a vine
I don’t always see mine grow by the window
Every day the sun drops, sirens bellow on the highway
My children cover their ears by the window
If I sit with my plant and forget the virus
The ambulance lights still glow by the window

Nepal-born Anuja Ghimire (Twitter @GhimireAnuja) writes poetry, flash fiction, and creative nonfiction. She is the author of Kathmandu (Unsolicited Press, 2020). She’s a two-time Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee. She works as a senior publisher in an online learning company. She reads poetry for Up the Staircase Quarterly. She enjoys teaching poetry to children in summer camps. Her work found home in print and online journals and anthologies in Nepal, U.S., the U.K., Scotland, India, Australia, and Bangladesh. She lives near Dallas, Texas with her husband and two children.