Dia Bhojwani


seven a.m brings a rose mouthed dawn and my morning sour breath. the car
roars, a belly hungry beast. every speed breaker a violent exclamation mark,
sending my head bumpbumping against the window. my route to school takes me
through this sun flushed street, with the church, the fishmarket, the cats.
the fishwives don’t spare the cars a glance, noserings honeyed half moons.
weathered feet rise as tortoiseshell bullets streak towards the argent glint
of fishscale. anklet bells ring into the salt heavy air.
those cats! blessing of my caffeine thick stupor. sloe eyed pride of the
cantankerous sun. milk white tails whip the ground, ringmasters cloaked in
fur. dizzy bright, the sweet heat of the morning pulsing through the glass.
a lesson before my classes begin. sometimes mornings are this soft. sometimes
goodness, this small.

Dia Bhojwani (they/he/she) is a writer, editor, and all-around rascal from Mumbai, India. They’ve been published in Polyphony Lit, Parallax, and the Hearth Mag, amongst others. They’ve won awards from Lune Spark, Wingword, the Seamus Heaney Center, and most recently, were the recipient of the 2021 Claudia Ann Seaman Prize for Fiction. When not writing, they’re listening to Hozier, watching stand-up, and eating copious amounts of Hawaiian pizza.

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