All India will ever be, fits in the palm of your hand

I should have been there that night you lay
buried in sheets
wondering how something so small
could bring a grown man to his knees.

But these things,
the tiniest mouth, nose, hands,
are anything but small
not when they were never given the chance to grow

not when they make you want
to burst into the sky
burn feet, rubber,
whatever will move faster on tarmac
to get away

outrun the moment that closes in
when she took her first breath

or each hour that followed,
where you wish you had taken pause
more often.

You force one too many painkillers
down your throat
to dull the senses
because addiction is better

anything is better

than this hurt that you cannot grasp,
that has you doubled up,
and this is the only way you know
how to make it stop.

Until you see her, carved in gold on yellow pencils
on maps, in newspapers
wishing her name had not been
so uncommon
and yet

everywhere

until you hear a cry, similar in pitch, or desperation

or until, for no apparent reason,
the sky is overcast,
and you know, the sea surrounding the rock on which she lies,
becomes angry, crashing ineffectually against stone
the water exploding into a thousand pieces

and the island stands
indifferent

to these injustices

to this,

your

loss.