There are lifetimes in that backpack, like rocks
that grind each other to smooth. I hear
them groan and roll their eyes as we walk
by the river, through deodars, then higher

into sky woven by street child. I used to resist
leaving legs behind, think fractures worse
than absence. I used to think jigsaws exist
for whole images, never the moment of one curve

smooth into another. Now, as a peahen guides
us through an unfamiliar sky, as we laugh
in the corners of Urdu words, as the rocks inside
the bag learn slowly to leave things in the rough,

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as we slither through the days, amongst all we have gained,
I am proudest of this: we have earned each other’s names.


Published with permission from “The Fingers Remember: Poems”, Yoda Press, 2015.

This selection is curated by Yamini Krishnan.