Carolina Hotchandani
So the Humans Reproduced
For the world required another mirror—
proffered by the eyes of the child.
For the ocean was insufficient.
For the water on windy days withheld reflections,
giving back the crests of waves—
their foam and spray—
and nothing more.
For the mirrors, chiseled and polished by hands,
were flat, so the humans whirled before the glass
in search of the third dimension.
For children’s eyes were curved
like the Earth the sun lit daily.
For children cried as light pierced their eyes,
and what the humans heard was need.
It was not theirs. It was theirs.
It was the truest reflection they could almost see.
Carolina Hotchandani
Chiaroscuro
Against the sonogram’s black background, bones
glow like fragments of distant nebulae:
starlike hands, moonlike head, cratered where eyes
will later be set. I hold my camera
above the image; I want a photo
to send to my mom. There is no angle
that lets me capture this cluster of bones
from which the eye divines a human form.
The glossy finish reflects the lamp’s light—
a white nimbus: the baby’s twin, conceived
of light, without consent. What worlds entered
me, undiscerned? What annunciation
follows? I feel a stirring of stars. I
wait for hidden lives to be delivered.
Both poems originally published in The Book Eaters by Carolina Hotchandani. Reprinted with permission of the author and Perugia Press.
Carolina Hotchandani is the author of The Book Eaters, 2023 Perugia Press Prize Winner, one of the ten debut poetry books featured in Poets & Writers Magazine’s 2024 debut poets issue and winner of the Nebraska Book Prize in the Poetry Honor category. Hotchandani’s poetry has appeared in The Atlantic, AGNI, Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, and various other journals. She is a Goodrich Assistant Professor of English in Omaha, Nebraska.