For Saraswati, at Eight Months

Mornings, he told me, Your hands they have a life of their own. I'm afraid what they might do. In time I learned to sleep like others, arms abandoned heavily on the bed. With her I know the night again. She calls me in the cool dark, her fingers rove over my palm, warm rain on the shallow basin, across my knuckles, the flat back of my hand, the mound of my thumb. My fingers tremble on her skin. Loons skimming the lake, water trembling

History · Psychology · South Asian Studies and Diaspora