We are in a place that has become a womb.
A sweltering jungle womb.
Each morning, they rub us
with dark hands
deep, medicated oil
laid out in loincloths
on wooden tables.
In a light pink sari
Oosha pours hot water methodically up and down each limb,
coaxing to the surface
darkness
from the bones.
They bring medicines in tiny tin cups.
Sweet ones. Bitter ones. Warm sour ones.
We sit in bed, chairs. Read some. sing some.
watch our own unearthed dirt
and wait
for the next few lines
of this poem.