Sandip Chauhan
Out of Frame
mare's tails
the skyline uncoiling
into possibility
The first weeks dissolved into each other—street signs in block letters, the rush of yellow cabs, laundromats with neon lights buzzing through the early dark. I memorized the way to the grocery store by the color of the awnings—green for produce, red for meat, blue for the cash register where I handed over crumpled bills, still rough from the exchange. The windows of our apartment overlooked the back entrance of a funeral home, its sign missing a few letters, metal doors painted a dull shade of green.
white lilies
a line of black umbrellas
pressing forward
I let the outside world recede, turning toward the quiet work of making a home. We didn’t have much—just two milk crates for a table, a mattress on the floor, and a wooden crate where we kept the essentials: turmeric, red pepper, salt, and a wooden spoon that had seen better days. A friend passed along a set of chairs, a little wobbly but sturdy enough. Another friend brought the Ford Pinto, folding into the rhythm of the neighborhood. I learned to measure rice by instinct, the way my grandmother did—no markings, just the weight of it in my hand, the way the grains settled.
ant trail
shadows pooling
in borrowed cups
The radiator hisses all night, clanking like it’s rearranging its own bones. We leave the windows cracked. The wind slips in under the sheet we tack up as a curtain, lifting it just enough to make it seem as if someone were standing there, waiting to be invited in. I sit by the window, feet propped on the sill, watching flakes drift to the fire escape. It feels like a place patched together with yesterday’s light, holding its breath for tomorrow.
the quiet hours
of watchful dogs
waning moon
About the Author
Born into a literary family in Punjab, India, Sandip Chauhan currently resides in Northern Virginia, USA, where she pursues a career as a bank regulator in the federal government. She holds a PhD in Punjabi Literature, has edited three haiku anthologies, and authored a collection of haiku poetry, Sprouting Grass. She also writes poetry in her mother tongue, Punjabi.