She squinted down at fingers, gnarled and swollen, the colour of watery indigo from the lake where withered rainbows go to die. For years a metallic silence had grown like a brown fungus inside her eyes, crawling down her throat and burying her voice deep under the whispering roots of the far mango tree.
And yet this morning words covered her hands, like fresh green paste of henna leaves, smelling of falling rivers and filled with the light that moved in sheaths over waving mustard fields. She stood on the bed, and began to write on white walls, walls that turned for her, one by one, like empty pages being read by a hungry wind.
from shrivelled palms
lines of eternity
drip down slowly