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teachers of something by Tejaswini Sudhakar

my dear friend calls it serendipitous

every time she runs into someone she knows

on the street. i know we all live on this campus,

she says, but still. there are insects tucked away

in our freezer, with their wings splayed apart,

and they might be dead, or caught

in a long sleep. sometimes i wonder

what could make a body click awake,

decide to work again.

maybe we’re all teachers of something,

then. me, with my phone camera

open to the sky, my blue gold journal

and that hunger to capture something

just as it is, or right before it disappears.

the ladybug, with its blood red

and spotted body, crawling up against

the white pavement just as soon as

we ask for a little luck. my friend,

who, as ada limón once said,

will never get over making everything

such a big deal. perhaps, even, the frozen cicada,

with its legs locked in place, its netted wings

fanned open, dreaming between

this life and the next.


TEJASWINI SUDHAKAR is a senior at the University of Kentucky studying Psychology and Gender & Women's Studies. They were born in Chennai, India, but are currently residing in Lexington, Kentucky. Currently, they are drafting a documentary poetry collection surrounding the experiences of first generation immigrant and refugee women in Kentucky. They hope to pursue an MFA in poetry and keep producing social-justice oriented work.

@tejaaaaas on Twitter


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