By Priya Joshi

Sometimes I fall back into the

red station wagon parked lonely

in the church lot, the moon in lieu of the street lamps,

demanding its moment to shine.


Just a few hours. We’re undressed,

enveloped in the bright light, the shadow

of an overzealous cross reaching through our

bodies—but your hand covers my heart.


I see now if you no longer exist in my world,

you do not exist at all. We took for granted,

in those open-ended eves, the certainty

of definitions. We trusted,

in some sense, all that was attached to

a word, a feeling, a delusion.

I felt you there, true as day, but now I’m unsure

if you ever happened.


What’s saddest of all,

I still speak to your death as if I believe in God.




Priya Joshi works and lives in New York City, where she writes, reads, and eats. Currently she’s a writer and literary strategist for a small publication firm in New Jersey (yeah, she commutes), and spends her free time atop the two wheels of her Trek roadster—or napping when she’s not so ambitious. A graduate of Marymount Manhattan College, her essays have received one honorable mention and one win in the Mortimer Levitt Essay Contest, 2008 and 2010, respectively.

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