To My January Daydream
My mother used to whisper my father's dreams into my palms at night
So I'd always have a piece of him to hold when her hands weren't enough.
Home was her perfume, the lingering scent of cilantro clinging to her clothes,
Her sleepy embrace after every nightmare, and her regal saris coiled around her like
The rings on a tree trunk.
I grew in her shade, arms outstretched like pillars of the only church I'd ever bow to;
She breathed religion into the unholiest parts of myself,
looked at s