32. st. andrews

Fans stir the curtains, billowing like specters in the thick evening air. The kumkum from temple sits crushed in the hollow of my throat, the sweat lies in a necklace along my collarbone. I stand and follow the words I have forgotten I know, rusty they are and full of home sounds: the thick slitting sound of a watermelon knife, a peal of laughter, a gushing water hose, whisper of cotton, clean, and be Thou my Vision and Eardrum and Palms and the Taste of sweet milk on a sunporch, poured slowly, and rain.

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