Jatinga, Assam
Father says I will recognise it when it hits us—
Of course, I don’t understand. The roads are
winding and I am only a girl. This is how
I memorise light: it comes without warning.
I am eight and blinded by a supernatural
glare, a conic mirror above us. Our windshield
explodes, little prisms of glass shattered on the
highway in a zigzag line. Line of trucks behind
overtake collide corrode; even in this episode,
Father is still speaking: Look. This is how the bird dies.
We are the same, leaping into luster. Why do we keep
going despite our kin crashing? We see beauty and claim
it our nest. The men of Jatinga walk with axes, their
torches ablaze & primed. Wings on fire, eyes, spine, beak
failing the bird. Light touches her everywhere. Her body–
mine–heating, burning. What do men with axes know
about flight? They pick their prey gently, feed on fear.
Father says it is only a dream and, therefore, cannot hurt.
What does father know about us: danger sewn
on our wings? When it ends, I wake up a girl again.