By Priya Joshi

Here in moments of foreign weakness:

folding old clothes with crippling precision

scrubbing kitchen tiles eyes vacant hands blistered

bleeding my horror onto loose-leaf paper

sheet after sheet I think of you

as I leave myself late night and lushing

detached from my body dignity and all.

I think of you as I spew my sorrow

across an unmarked channel:

through another lover’s bed

on another lover’s floor

in another lover’s life I think of you

standing at the mouth of a vacuum

three thousand miles long waiting to be sucked

into the recesses of my memory

the black hole of my guilt, gaping.


I think of you here in the unforgiving gravity of regret

In the remnant of a tear now dying down my cheek

In the levity of a love, at last, lost on the world.




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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