The reflection in the puddle is an old man with a phone

By Sharvaree Bhalerao

The crevices of my grandfather’s wrinkled hands
always tasted like pomegranates and daal and rice,
 
with a tinge of garlic and spice. He used to tell me
a story. The day the first raindrop kisses the earth,
 
everything shifts. He picked me up from school every
day until three years ago when his hand shook violently
 
at Terminal 1. Turbulence is such a bizarre experience,
your stomach flips and so does your life. Tradition
 
is forgone somewhere between a three-hour layover
and a missed call from your old life. My grandfather had
 
a rule—never to eat out. When the waft of mud was
a houseguest, we would serve her tea. When August peeked from
 
the doorstep, he made ramen taste like a gourmet
meal. My back aches now, his gaze on my shoulders is
 
hefty. I once caught a droplet, a cusp of heaven, he called
it. I am older than yesterday and my backpack gets
 
heavier with each new raindrop. My socks are wet
at the stop sign and I wonder when did I walk this far?  

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Marlboro lite in Lake Michigan is a self-inflicted renaissance

By Sharvaree Bhalerao

There are ants in my veins
& the water knows
& the water doesn’t lie
& the water knows.
 
My father stands to my right. He asks:
what is the proof of loneliness? Is it the
carefully discarded laundry or
the neatly stacked bookshelf
redone five times? Is it the sixth
Office rewatch or is it a walk down
the street at midnight?
 
The water will break me
& the anteater isn’t far away
& the ants slither along my heels
I can feel their tongue on
the soles of my feet.
 
My mother stands to my left. How long can
a rock stand still? She asks:
How long until the freshwater slips
underneath the slits in your skin? She
says: Patience
only rewards those who
break at will.
 
The ants love my eyelids,
& eyebrows,
& nostrils,
& my pericardium, 
which tastes like pickled
mangoes without
chili oil.
 
The water threatens to claim me
& the water slips in my shorts
& between my teeth
& I walk on my knees.
 
I take a step into the
lake.
& another one. Light up a cigarette
& a joint
& a candle
& the anteater watches me from afar
& waits. 

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​Originally from India, Sharvaree Bhalerao is a senior at the University of Cincinnati studying International Affairs & Creative Writing. She is a poet who mostly resides in fantastical worlds, and her talents include philosophizing, soliloquizing and, of course, writing. Oftentimes, she wants to discover the meaning of life between the single-lined pages of her worn-out notebook.  She wants to pursue her MFA in Poetry. Her work has appeared in the Short Vine Journal. You will always find her in a coffee shop either reading or writing.