Oma, my grandmother,
drinks her tea
from an old green mug
with a crack down the side.

People give her new mugs,
mugs with happy faces, flowers,
polka dots,
bright red mugs.

She puts them on the topmost shelf
and continues to clutch her old one,
whose crack matches
the warm brown tea.

Betsy Martin


I glide down Main,
my black Kawasaki
a sleek, muscular steed.

The wind embraces me.

Some men leer
from a pickup truck, lips
curled back from their teeth

My face is the face
of the moon in a helmet,
reflective, softly glowing.

Betsy Martin


There is no suitcase, no cabin baggage to pack.
No air ticket, no hotel booking to be locked in.
There is no fear of red-eye. When my poems
globe-trot, a part of my longstanding love affair
with myself travels with them. They carry my
flavors, my failures.

Sanjeev Sethi