The three collections in this review look at the quiet messiness that comes with the act of becoming. The in-between spaces, the not-quite-fixedness of it all. They hold room for what slips through, for what memory tends to forget, and poetry becomes the place where even the fleeting finds a home.
That age is tied up not just with the seasons as they pass but with how much a human heart can actually hold and carry with it—that quiet truth shines through this hauntingly beautiful collection by Anju Makhija.
The grass will dry this summer,
I must weed myself out. Neither
your ancestors lived here, nor mine.