Bio as Mirror-Gazing & Oracle-Making
I’m a poet, essayist, melancholist & the Founding Editor of ONLY POEMS. I’m writing a folklore-horror novel that’s sometimes funny. I’ve been spiritually married to Karan Kapoor for one million and sixty-nine centuries now. We have a baby the color of time whose name spells itself. The three of us live everywhere and regularly frequent nowhere.
Bio (but it’s wearing a tux)
Shannan is the Founding Editor of ONLY POEMS. She has been awarded or placed for the Palette Love & Eros Prize, Rattle Poetry Prize, Auburn Witness Prize, Foster Poetry Prize, among others. Her poems appear in Poetry Daily, Black Warrior Review, Missouri Review, Poet Lore, Gulf Coast, The Literary Review of Canada, EPOCH, december, & elsewhere. She is the Poet Laureate’s pick for Exile. Her essays appear in Tolka Journal and Going Down Swinging; they have been awarded the Alta Lind Cook Prize and the Irene Adler Essay Prize. She also translates Sanskrit poetry.
Wedding Ring is to Take off as Crash is to Land
There is no word for divorce in my language. The Vedas describe nine kinds of marriage. The man I called my husband in three countries for seven years has asked me to return the ring. In the voice of someone who hopes for refusal. I want time. I need soap. The ring is not dirty. It’s stuck. Fingers swell with ennui after marriage. I’ve kept the gold looming behind the bright cold white in linoleum-clean condition even though rhodium’s chipped in between three diamonds. One can only see it if they make the ring their third eye. Insignificant, the damage. In the bathroom mirror, my face for a flash is painted again in turmeric, sandalwood, ash. I want to ask him if he remembers how the mandap smoke reddened my eyes and I held his hand beneath the pink and silver knot between us. How each time the priest paused I whispered, are we married now? Or did I say yet? I lather lemon soap around my finger and rub the edges, creating space between flesh and metal. The fire of our marriage now burns under tap water. Our faces wreathed in rose garlands, sweat, promise. I turn the ring on my finger until it quietly, finally drops, dancing around the basin rim, threatening vanishment. My reflex picks the ring. The faucet continues to bleed its song into the porcelain bowl. The ring in my hand, its memory still circling the end of my ring finger as a tanline. I perch the gold beside the mirror so it looks like two rings touching — almost an infinity, but because of glass mere zeroes.
Notable
Auburn Witness Poetry Prize Runner-up, Selected by Joy Harjo
Irene Adler Essay Prize Winner,
Alta Lind Cook Writing Prize Winner
Peatsmoke Summer Poetry Contest Winner
Foster Poetry Prize Honourable Mention
Black Warrior Review Poetry Prize Finalist
Pacific Spirit Poetry Prize Finalist
Frontier Award for New Poets Finalist
Palette Love and Eros Poetry Prize Second Place Winner, Selected by Carl Phillips