• Skip to main content
  • Skip to header right navigation
  • Skip to site footer

submissions reopen june 1

Shō Poetry Journal

Established in 2002, revived in 2023

  • Read a Poem
  • Listen
    • Shō Number Six
    • Shō Number Five
    • Shō Number Four
    • Shō Number Three
    • Pride Month Playlist #1 (2024)
    • Black History Month Playlist (2025)
    • Women’s History Month Round-Up 2025
    • Asian/Pacific American Heritage Month Roundup 2025
  • Interviews
    • A Conversation with Arah Ko
    • A Conversation with Nathan Xavier Osorio
  • Buy
  • About
    • Mission Statement
    • Our Story
    • Masthead
    • Accolades
    • Nominations
    • Contact
  • Shō Family
    • Contributors
    • Contributors (by issue)
    • Cover Art
    • Books from Shō No. 3 Poets
  • Submit
    • Submissions
    • The Sita Martin Prize
    • The Shō Poetry Prize
    • Prize Winners
  • Donate
  • Cart

Ranudi Gunawardena, Sita Martin Prize Runner-Up

Girl Cousins, Pixelated

by RANUDI GUNAWARDENA

On days when my mother craved
ambarella for her bump, she drove

us to our cousins’ place in Ganemulla
where the ambarella tree was always

waiting, and under it, you. The fruit
hung bending the branches, like a hundred

small stomachs, bird-eaten and naked
where the beaks had pierced. In the sun

sieved through the leaves, your hair
gleaming, a crow’s wing mid-flight

and I, running into your small arms.
Evenings, after we tired of throwing

stones at high fruit, frightening squirrels
into temporary hiding, you taught me

how to kiss you like a boy from a new
Hollywood film. To run to you, waiting

at the foot of the ambarella tree, from the far
end of the garden, where in an artificial

pond, the saree guppy died every fortnight,
forgotten. I spun you, your dress filling

with wind like guppy fins trailing
in water, your bare feet floating barely

above ground. And when we kissed,
your lips tasted only of skin, smelled only

of ambarella—our teeth sinking in
through unwashed fruit skin to find

unexpectedly, like a buried tongue,
the insides. You cried Cut—cut, cut,

cut—so the retake was necessary;
my running, your spinning, our kiss always

not quite satisfactory, pixelated possibility
until you stopped me in the tree shade

and said, Enough, now I will be
the boy
. Later, when we tired of this

too, we sat beneath the ambarella tree,
sharing a fruit crushed under your foot,

sucking in turns its vague tartness
until we were called home.

AUDIO

Listen to Ranudi Gunawardena read “Girl Cousins, Pixelated.”

This poem was chosen as the runner-up of the Sita Martin Prize for Shō No. 6.


Ranudi Gunawardena is a Sri Lankan poet whose work explores the wombscape, childhood in rural landscapes, and the uncanny in nature, among others. Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as Action, Spectacle; Equatorial; Kopi Collective; Magma; Samfiftyfour; and Wachana. She studies at Williams College.


See more poems from Shō No. 6 (Winter 2024/25) by purchasing a copy.

Share this poem

  • Bluesky
  • Facebook
  • Mail
  • Twitter
  • Pinterest

Interested in sponsoring or supporting the Sita Martin Prize for Emerging Poets? Please share our fundraising campaign here.

Related

Category: Featured Work, Prizes, Read a Poem, Shō Number SixTag: Ranudi Gunawardena

Publishing Stats

Since our revival issue was published in Summer 2023:

260

Poems Published

170

Total Poets Published

62

Audio Features Published

28

Poems Nominated for Prizes

1

Poem chosen for inclusion in Best Spiritual Literature

Shō Poetry Journal


is a proud member of the Community of Literary Magazines and Presses.

Our Story
Masthead
Accolades
Donate
Contact
Submit
FAQ
Newsletter

  • Twitter
  • Instagram
  • Facebook
  • Bluesky

Copyright © 2025 · Shō Poetry Journal · All Rights Reserved

Privacy policy

We use cookies to ensure that we give you the best experience on our website. If you continue to use this site we will assume that you are happy with it.Ok