A
L
L
it takes is a slip on a wintery sidewalk
and I’m hurtled back into humid memory,
watching the door of a crimson city bus
rummaging through the streets of my childhood,
my mother at its doorstep, moments away
from falling
into a lifetime of pain and waiting for more pain.
I am caught weeping,
my hands against the brown muck of ice
and I am ok, I a m o k, I a m o k ?
She tells the strangers looking down at her.
The bus moves on and someone offers a hand.
We dust ourselves off, listen for the crows
cawing at us from the branches of the rain trees.
There are red streaks across my palms
like a shoeflower torn into pieces
disappearing into the pleats of a pale green sari.
The evening pulls us home,
A soft tread begins
echoing through the
d
a
y
s.
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