I Move in Light
dawn at the train station:
hushed voices scatter last night’s news
into the air like goldfish the
morning light plucks it pours
it over pillars & swims at your feet.
the floor is wet with feelings
spreading onto everything
like saliva. I spill in all directions,
making the birds scatter and alight.
even here, I am slowly looking
for ways to slink away
from the scene. the train
has caterpillared to a stop
its driver takes a moment
to rest his head, fingers drumming
a familiar beat against the side
of the carriage and as he does this
the stitches binding the picture rip
apart more and more. the truth
about restlessness is that
it has whittled my body to lean forward
and away. it measures time with a scale
and cups the hours in its hands.
you look holy in the dusty light and
I want to write a prayer on each of your eyelids.
the windows of the train are too clean,
its honeycomb carriages too narrow.
I am always running late.
Sanvitti Sahdev grew up in Delhi, India and currently lives in Houston, Texas. She recently graduated from Rice University where she was co-editor-in-chief of its literary journal.