Between Hurricanes – Belinda Subraman

As we slide into the 3rd world we have created, running from hurricanes, with our SS# indelibly inked on our arms storms swell and swallow…

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Book Passion – Belinda Subraman

I dreamed I was eating a book. It was made from 8” by 12” slabs one inch deep. It tasted like cheese but cut like…

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Classical Indian Explanation: Music – Belinda Subraman

past the hippies past Ravi Shankar eons before when the first Asian snake came alive stiffened with sound through some empty shell some hollow wood…

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My Indian In-laws – Belinda Subraman

I remember India: palm trees, monkey families, fresh lime juice in the streets, the sensual inundation of sights and smells and excess in everything. I…

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The Waiting – Belinda Subraman

Silence has no zen today. Ambient freeway noise from ј mile away, the occasional Friday nighter coming home 2:00 a.m. Saturday, the appliances with two-tone…

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Wayward Wind – Belinda Subraman

My patient, Paul, wrote in a poem that he belongs to the wayward wind, a restless breed, a strange and hardy class. I’ve been with…

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Yin Yang – Belinda Subraman

At the edge of winter in crisp early March a dull thud of numbness delays joy and sadness that will make us weep. In the…

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Approaching The Veil, Scientifically – Belinda Subraman

Eyes like stars sparkle and die and cycle into new stars, new eyes. The answer is outside our window. Astronomers look for the beginning and…

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