Knox had been hanging around 8th street since before they put in the ATMs. We didn't know where he lived, but that's where he'd been ever since I'd moved here about ten years ago. He used a cracked ... [+]
The sun shines differently in India, warmth burning around me like I'm a candle wick, a baby swaddled
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.
in a quilt blanket, and a lotus flower
whose roots are enveloped by water soil.
I feel peace like I'm woven between the threads of silk sarees, pushed by Ganga's tide, and carved into the thousand pillars of stone temples.
I hold my Ammamma's hand, full of wrinkles and softer than silk, her cool breath against my forehead, eyes bright and unseeing, and I know I'm hers.
The red Indian fire lives in both of us.