a little less ugly.
VISITORS
Chandra visits wearing a wobbly smile,
with her wet-cheeked ma
and her pa, who clutches her ma’s shoulder
for support.
I watch Chandra walk across the green tile floor,
her strong, muscular cricket-captain legs gliding toward my bed.
She takes no notice of where slopes and cracks
hinder a wheelchair ride.
Chandra says,
“Can’t wait for you to get on the cricket field.”
I don’t care about cricket.
All I want is to dance again.
She should know.
She tries, “The whole team’s waiting for you to get back.”
—A polite lie I never expected
to hear from my best friend.
I hardly ever spoke to anyone on the team except Chandra.
She says, “I miss you in class, too.”
I say thanks.
Our conversation totters
close to the cliff of silence.
Keels over.
Chandra says, “See you
later.”
Not see you
soon.
I try to lift my eyes to meet hers.
But my gaze stays low
and follows her quick, sure steps
across the uneven floor.
After she leaves, though I shut my eyes,
I can’t stop picturing
the ease
of her walk.
STAYING AWAY
Uday anna
doesn’t visit.
He’s fine, Pa says, when I ask.
No one else was badly hurt.
Except the driver, who died.
After ten years of seeing Uday anna
every day after school,
I can’t believe he doesn’t miss me
enough to visit
once.
Tomorrow he’ll come, I keep thinking.
Tomorrows come and go.
He sends a card:
“With wishes for a complete recovery.”
As if I could ever be
complete
with one leg half gone.
His absence shows
he thinks I’m too crippled to dance again.
I tear up his card.
I’ll show Uday anna.
Sooner than he thinks,
I’ll be back in his classroom,
back in competition,
back on my own feet.
Or rather,
back on my own
one
foot.