by Vasantha Sambamurti

Be fond of what glows in the dark. The heladería (waffle cone, kind smiles for your Spanish) the corner store (PET milk, kind smiles for your Hindi).

Pass by a church that’s always dim, its Virgin Mary weeping old snow.  

The tree outside your apartment is a landmark; at its roots, an altar of bottle caps and gum wrappers. After it snows, the wrappers freeze straight like small men. 

The men keep watch when you unlock the door quickly at 2 AM. They whisper goodnight when you close the door, disinherit the cold, and leave them, melting.

Vasantha Sambamurti is a poet and prose writer pursuing an MFA at the University of Arkansas’ Program in Creative Writing and Translation. Their work is forthcoming in the minnesota review.