The Mustang is evidence, so a cab driver from Bombay
drives her home. His sentences all sound like questions,
though he never asks one. She's grateful for this small blessing.
He talks about his mother and sister, still in India:
They are poverty and wait for me to bring them?
My father died of dysentery?
I am so lucky to live here?
He watches her in the rear view,
his eyebrows parentheses of perpetual surprise.
The baby sleeps in her arms, her tiny snore
like a card in a distant bike's spokes. After days of waking
every other hour, she has slept through the worst day
of her mother's life. Though her husband neither confirms
or denies, could've beens thunder in her gut.
She pays the driver, tips all she has.
He says, Thank You, Ma'am. I wish you luck?
She swears the house gasps when she opens the door.
A hum vibrates an Om in her throat, but her voice is silent.
She forms a U with her firm pillows, lets the baby
sleep beside her for the first time. The walls lean in
and out with each breath. The bed yawns, cradles them
in its flannel maw where they sleep until the window
swallows the light.