When my body reaches for & does
not arrive, my girlfriends hold
me as their own in a portico
of light welding into possibility.
One is young. we sleep with string
on a small bed like siblings.
One has a heart like a canoe & a
house with a constricted staircase.
I creak down in the mornings
to find her with tea, readying
the toast to hold together the day.
One is older & knows how to leave
a place without guilt, trusts me
with a canvas & paint: there is nothing
wrong you can do. When telling a vein
from an illusion, a jacaranda from
a stub is beyond my powers, this is
their work: to lift a dropped stitch,
to move the needle tediously forward,
looping detail in yarn till I am ready.
Published with permission.
This selection is curated by Yamini Krishnan.