Climb out of the Pacific Ocean, where fake islands crown a shore, and a dead boat floats bloated in the distance. Walk four blocks away from the waves.
Ask any of my nieces. They’ll open their hands, read their palms, find me in a wrinkle that roots to their heart lines.
Blindfold my mother and tell her I am hungry. Fill her hands with parathas and follow her, follow her.
Tell the moon you’re searching. She knows where all the widows are.
Come back here: this space where I know I can find you.
I would never stray for long.