by Ananda-mayi dasi
We’re in summer: our beds pocked
with dead songbirds: grey understatements.
A girl’s plain body turns
in a noose. Everything lengthens—
her legs, her hair, the bell tone
of her laugh—until
her beauty sets her on the ground.
I watch you, my brother,
probe the garden, your strong back
to me & my exotic skin
hangs in the heat. You’re digging
graves; you’re planting marigolds.
Ananda-mayi dasi lives and works as a nun in the Hindu
tradition of Gaudiya Vaisnavism, and she spends most of her
time writing, cooking, and tending the temple at Madhuvan,
an ashram in the jungles of Costa Rica. She holds an MFA
in poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her writing has
appeared in Fourteen Hills, The Harmonist, and elsewhere,
and she is a columnist at Ruminate.
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Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary
Volume 13, Number 2
Copyright © 2018
by Leah Browning, Editor.
All future rights to material
published in the Apple
Valley Review are retained
by the individual authors