She drops us in a depression scratched into the base of the kitchen wall, outside the London Blessing Party Hall Your Wedding Needs Are Ours. Ahead of us stretches the empty lot, then Khirki Gaanv. Behind us, on the other side of the wall, ten hundred thousand lights are not lit at Select City Mall.
A rip current travelling the planet’s skin sends its tremors ahead. We quake. We cling to that wall. But the tide subsides in the fine mesh of Khirki’s labyrinthine turns, so that crossing the empty lot it laps us, milk lapping a saucer. How do I know milk lapping a saucer? I dreamed it in the womb, my mother’s dream.
Little gusts remain to kick and fuss, to blow softly into our blind eyes the news: plaster and oil, salt and cud of grass, thread of down loosened in flight from young bird’s breast. Twitch nose and sniff for meaning.
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