if you close your eyes now
you won’t see the green-gleaming air-
like an exhaled breath, poisonous and wet-
the penultimate thing
that precedes the tumbling down
an endless cosmic sewer blocked up with echoed sound and old apathy
accompanied by a caterwauling siren that attracts whales
if you never (crash-)land
is it flying?


Sneha Mohidekar grew up in Northern California, where she developed an intolerance for weather altogether, although she discovered in moving to Seattle that she does have an irrational love for Washington rain. She is currently a third-year at the University of Washington, and the Poetry Editor for Bricolage Literary and Visual Arts Journal. She has a soft spot for pseudo-surrealistic poetry and purple prose. Her favorite words include drift and luminesce- ask her, she’s got a list.


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