body paragraph

Mukta Sambrani

Late at night eyes carry her there. Bodies speak in whispers. Prosthetic, splint, caliper, elbow crutch, walker. People taking measurements conceal their various metal, wood and plastic extensions. The art of endorsement and testimony has not arrived at the body shop. In the other room men and children bite on gags to walk the ramp.

Early the next morning, exhausted, she is told she doesn't have to know how. The job has been done, people stayed up and cleaned up afterwards. She sees no swabs, no tongs, no mucous. She smells nothing either. In the mirror she spies a cobweb forming in her eyes. She wipes it off and leaves it in her bangle box for later.

In the dark room at the far end, he lies in wait. Bundled for preservation. He wonders if she will fly or drive all night. She wonders whether the mangled form will keep the promise of replacing shoes that are coming off at the seams. She falls asleep in the early hours chewing on the flowers and broken faces on the sheet.

Why are you traveling alone, she is asked incredulously. They give her raisins and a warm bed beside their infant son. She accepts with gratitude and dreams antiseptic smells inside her head, being reunited in the corridor. The voice of her mother, mostly silent. No bright bird, no thoughts of song here, between the blood green and the stark white.