i sense that the sunflowers have died
by Simran Pandey
i remember that day in that brisk meadow:
you walked to me, guitar slung across your shoulders,
your eyes twinkling as the wind played with your hair—
you sat down under the shade of the woodland trees that
we first met under
if i squeeze my eyes tight enough, i can see the moment i saw
something held by your hands, your
demure smile quivering before you handed me the
basket of sunflowers as i sat between
the peonies and violets that had colored my world thus far
if i cover my ears, i can hear your words
easing through your rosy lips; your story
about seeing sunflowers near your house
and immediately plucking them out and biking over
to our spot; “a beauty for a beauty” you said
if i pinch my nose, i can almost smell
the efflorescence of the sunflowers, your
sweet cologne merging with the cold
air that surrounded us in our own
warm home, the hearth of our blooming love
if i bite my tongue hard enough, i can taste
the bittersweet yet opulent flavor of that moment,
the serendipity of it all, the dulcet tone of your
voice as you whispered secrets to me;
we were almost perfect
if i numb my hands, i can practically feel
the gift of our love, my fingers
brushing over the ethereal petals of the
sunflowers, my mind pretending it was your hair;
i thought our love would be sempiternal
if i can do all of this, do you think that:
if i stop my heart from beating,
i will be able to feel our evanescent love?
life from death
by Simran Pandey
i was biking along the dark, sullen
roads, cobwebs adorning the dead
peach trees when
i saw you running alongside me,
and something, something about those
hazel eyes, those curls resting gently atop your
face made me stop in my tracks as
i got off the bike and left it there,
fallen and forgotten; you led me to inside
the woods, to a tree that looked so
existing that it didn’t fit in between these
dead, broken weeds and bushes
you pulled me aside, literally
pulled
me
to the edge of the tree and sat me
down while
you told me the story of how this
forest, or what was left of it, was once a
cemetery
you told me that people are buried
beneath the leaves i am sitting on, dreams
dead with them
i looked back at you and saw that
you were laying on the ground, ear pressed
against the bare, dirty ground, closing your eyes,
humming quietly
your hands began to move rhythmically
against the ground: up and down, down and up;
the pulsatile movements were to some beat, i could tell
i asked you what you were doing
you simply smiled at me and said:
living
color
by Simran Pandey
my parents did not paint
me with turmeric and fennel
or scent me with saffron and ajwain
or play ’70s music from the motherland,
humming along and imprinting the
lyrics into my brain;
nor did they feed me coconut water straight
from the trees in india
or even give me the elixir that was a
mix of ajwain and coconut milk
to cure my stomach aches;
no, they did not sew me blankets from
the finest gossamers of love or
clothe me in the soft silk sarees
that i wore every diwali—
no, my parents did not infuse me
with the flavors of my culture and my language
just so
you
could try to wash it all away
summertime orange juice
by Simran Pandey
citrus trees blooming by the bucolic beach house
the sun baking us lightly until we are golden brown
an orange falls on the beach chair nearby
lydia, the maid, picks it up and grabs a knife out of her pocket
oh, to have a knife in your pocket instead of
in your heart
she almost juices the orange but i grab the halves
her cheeks blush, no, slowly go ablaze with embarrassment
as she backs away
i squeeze the orange onto my hand, letting it
sting against my cuts and wounds, blistering my fingers as the heat
blisters me
juice never tasted sweeter
no one likes bruised mangoes
by Simran Pandey
“always squeeze the mango to see if it’s ripe”
my parents whispered to me in the indian
grocery store, tamarind lining the shelves,
turmeric coloring the air, coconut water down
my throat, hot chai steaming in styrofoam cups
“always tap the watermelon to see how hollow it is”
the lady behind me at the farmers market told me as she
picked a watermelon off the stand and slapped it so
hard my heart jostled; she clucked her tongue and
repeated her trusted process, finally taking one home
“smell the cantaloupe to see if it’s good enough”
the man at the counter advised me; his
nametag torn a little around the edges so that
i couldn’t read his name, his smile so
sweet it had to be fake
“don’t buy the brown bananas”
the article said to pick the nice,
green ones instead—the brown ones:
they are too mushy, too sweet,
too fragile; always falling apart
i always pick the bruised fruit. the
rotten fruit, the ones that don’t pass the tests,
the survivors who escape conformity, the abominations,
the only fruits with personality because:
if i don’t pick them, will anyone else dare to?
About the Author
Simran Pandey is a rising sophomore at Amador Valley High School in California. As an emerging writer, she devotes her free time to writing poetry and prose. She has been recognized by her town’s literary magazine and hopes to learn more about the literary world. Simran enjoys playing the tuba and learning about law, as well.