Ananda Lima | The Common

Antropófaga

September 15, 2022 Fiction

Excerpt from Craft.

She devoured tiny Americans that slid out of a vending machine. Their thin metallic plastic packages almost opened themselves when punctured. Emerging with their tiny hands on either side of the rip, they declared their nutritional value (calcium, sugar, fat, 350 mg of synthetic protein). So many times she decided to diet and promised: no more Americans. But she always walked by, with an eye on the spot between the Ruffles and the Doritos, salivating. And before thinking, there she was again, inserting the coins, hot and sweaty from her palms, into the machine’s mouth.

It Requires a Kind of Surrender: An Interview with Ananda Lima

March 18, 2021 Interviews

TYLER BARTON interviews ANANDA LIMA

Sometimes I forget what a chapbook is for. Sometimes I think it’s the demo tape that hopes to precede the real album. Sometimes I think it’s the resting place for early work, work often promising, but ultimately unfinished.

Amblyopia

October 28, 2020 Issue 20, Issue 20 Poetry, Lusosphere, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry

By ANANDA LIMA

I close my right eye meu olho direito
and see everything tudo                   que
my mother my father meus pais no meu país
didn’t
know não sabiam
to do      tudo
            then que fazer?
                                                                      e hoje, minha vista cansada