The weight was that of a copper bowl of prasad
still warm, under a plantain leaf,
my right arm stinging from elbow
to fingertips.
I held that bundle far from my body.
I didn't want to feel the rhythm
of my own heartbeat
twice.
Treading softly through the dirt roads
and crouching behind tree trunks,
their bark patched with white lichens,
I turned back to watch dust settle
on my footprints.
I didn't look at the face
but the earrings reminded me
of his father—
how light
split on my skin
and the fine hairs rose, dusted
with shavings of gold.
If I wait till the morning—
my robes will bear
coal-stains.
Or I can trust the river, the ripples,
and the long shadows
on the other bank.
His mind might not register
the salty streaks that get snuffed
in the corner of my eyes.
But those earrings, those spiked wheels,
will haunt me forever
by making sure
I recognize him—
His warmth is seeping through the blanket into my arms;
his baby smell tugs at my resolve
and dampness darkens my blouse.
The night breeze was strong.
The water had mottled claws.
I bent over, smearing the river
with a knot I untangled
from myself,
my sharp breaths sucked into
the surface shimmer.
Now all I feel is
something weightless
trickling down
my spine.
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