Bhavya Bhagtani is a poet from Ajmer, India, pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Virginia Commonwealth University. Her work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in The Pinch, Whale Road Review, Sundog Lit, and elsewhere. She has served as Lead Poetry Editor for Blackbird and currently coordinates VCU’s Levis Reading Prize. She is on Bluesky (@bhavyabhagtani.bsky.social) and Instagram (@bhavyabhagtanii).
Mid-September smog
flickering lights
of the Qutub Minar
in the distance
from the backseat
of the autorickshaw
in which we sat
engulfed in a cloud
of smoke he exhaled
the cheap Goldflake
tucked between his lips
the dirt under his nails
had me nauseated
my fingers were still
stained from hours ago
when I had plucked
the clump out
of the maternity pad
sizing its seven week-
ness against my palm
oozing, like the flesh
of a berry, unripe,
imploding, soft
blackwhole
fourteen days full of it
leaving, clots flattened
against the white tiles
of an unfamiliar bathroom
not our own, our love
did not deserve
all that space
each night I watched
his snoring face
and my hands as they
travelled far away from me
to some liminal land
I navigate grief
to learn grief
is bigger
than a country
I left my country
to learn grief
must be a planet
that orbits my body
slowly grew
indifferent to his voice
and finally, he stopped
being the man
I once desired;
the day after
the bleeding stopped
he asked if I wanted
to fuck
in his sister’s kitchen
he made me
spinach soup
fresh fruit juice
chopped beetroots
we had to make sure
I had enough
iron, was fed enough
meat, which he cut
with a knife, sharp
as the nurse’s eyes
when I told her
I did not want
to be a mother
but I had come up
with my favorite names
just in case
and I want to tell
you
that Juhi
is a flower
that blooms early spring
Tara
is a lone star
and Chanda
was the full moon
that hung low
in the sky
one of those nights
and the clouds
were pregnant with rain;
the downpour rushed
to the earth as if
it had something
urgent to say,
the patter was so loud
it sent all the birds
into a state of alarm
but fell silent,
songless
against the wan of my palm
Volume 16.2, Fall 26
Bhavya Bhagtani
