Excerpt: moon blooms

po-yum 

the whistle blows and the po-yum 
immediately writes itself 
in Malayalam slangs of old.
 
I’ve located such blankness in misery: 
but it’s actually part of a po-yum 

note that a po-yum is not a po-yem 
let alone a poe-em—
 
a po-yum is an attempt 
at saying it true. 

a po-yum is a song of chaos 
a yellow ringer phone 
a place that airs movies. 

moreover, a po-yum is not a poe-em 
which is longer and more morbid than it should be. 

a poe-em is a number 
a po-yum is a word 

a po-yum ends, with a click 
just like this.

***

anti-aubade 

the septuagenarian neighbourhood is
quiet, except for tinkling glasses at the
old beer garden.

Duchess moored to the third spot
from the west side of the canal has
disappeared. Raven Club has a
peeping puppy inside.

cows congress on the grass.
my phone rings—
an anachronic, stubborn blemish on
the silence of the evening.

after the call,
the landscape seems too eager to
lift the veil and kiss the sun,
settling in for the night,
leaving my suddenly rabid heart
without a goodbye.

***

ectopic 

a rogue egg makes a tent 
in the right fallopian tube: 
hides behind blood rather than find 
its way to my womb. before this: 
I’d not made space in life

for such pain. nor had my nerves  
borne rhythmic poison dart palpitations 
with tense squeaky defiance for hours. 
tears leak for what felt like days. 
kind-eyed doctors have trouble 

finding a vein in my alien brown skin 
to draw blood. pink cannula thrusts out 
like a bloody tooth. now: some Vicodin. 
a blurry ultrasound. a heartbeat in a tube. 
an almost-brain. I am already anaesthetized. 

an oxygen mask on my face 
unleashes breezy gusts and words. 
my last faint thought before I go under 
is how sharp the docs’ eyes are: 
alien-mustard, staring. 

I awake in post-op in tears 
but don’t remember crying. 
he’s silent. handing me water, cashews, 
calm. stretching out. stepping out. 
the sympathetic doctor asks us 

whether we want to see the tissue 
they’d inter in the premises. we say no. 
what is a rupture? what is the optimal 
amount of grief for the unknown? 
at night, after a sandwich and painkillers, 

(while actually craving rice and dal and hope) the left side of my body unconsciously shapes the blanket into a soft green bundle that wedges against my freshly cut tummy, a clinical-presence-absence of gratitude, a misshaped bitterness.)

***

chai in America 

we meet every weekend at the Deccan chai place like
migratory birds. our people, like us, convene, drinking
spiced tea. we share stories about the week, about the
sights we have seen, sometimes even

liking them in retrospect: what’s not to like? the
sights are heartening: roadside flowers 
pink and yellow, tall cypress trees with ghostly trunks
lighting up, arching high across, above the path; 

scars on redwoods, deep and old from forest fires,
baby otters swimming belly up, baby’s breath in the
bride’s hair at Vegas, pride of Madeira lining the
Pacific coast highway giving vertigo. 

we are storytellers in groups. we sigh and roar, pass
samosas and lend coats to the forgetful ones who are
cold. we talk of hikes planned, driving tests failed,
pickleball courts claimed. there are maps 

in our cars, of the places we live. we live places.
schools survive shootouts. we are afraid.  
hitting the night time alarm is muscle memory. our
marriage is yellow, ripe and sweet-smelling.

I drive you to the gym and back on alternate days.
the seed is strong, but it is taking too long. 
and California is a kid with dimples nestled against the
mountains, picking seashells stogged on the seashore. 

when we make chai at home, the clock waits, utters words
soaked in our tongues. some cinnamon. some cloves. some
old cardamoms from the back of the spice boat. it is okay.
the chai is brewing. it is okay to just be. 

tiger chai, like a gunshot steeped in silky milk sipping
stories, forgetting the home country. at night, fear
returns. I dream of Ma Kali, her face a hollow – bang –
blackberry in the framed portrait.

***

what it feels like 

you succumb to a stillness 
that pervades all but the heart 

as if you were smelling life 
until, suddenly, no fragrance 

but then you hear him and her and the other
rumbling with opinions, clouding over your life 

you believe that you live in their world 
you believe you are living out their words

do you believe you have lived? 
are all your lives just storyboards? 

did you love the world so much 
you eventually ran out of love? 

have you had a silent head in a while? 
have they stopped talking?

you become an insect 
on the windshield of life

Excerpted with permission from moon blooms by Athira Unni published by Red River 2026