A Time to Dance(27)

            residual leg.


As healed as it ever will be.


Below my knee, above where my leg now ends,

            a grotesque smiley mouth leers at me:

            a C-shaped scar.


Looking at my uneven skin

            exposed

            hurts

            worse than salting a fresh wound.

            Closing my eyes, I turn

            away.


Dr. Murali sings the praises of prostheses so enthusiastically,

            it’s as if he’s encouraging

            Ma and Pa to cut off their legs and replace them

            with “marvelous” artificial limbs

            that are “so much stronger” than our own.


Dr. Murali says, “We will give you a shrinker sock

            to compress your limb

            into a conical shape so it’ll fit easily into your prosthesis.

            Wear it as much as you can over the next month

            so your limb doesn’t become

            dog-eared or bulbous.

            Roll antiperspirant on the skin beneath your sock

            so the area stays dry. Keep it clean.

            We don’t want it getting infected and smelly.”

            My cheeks burn with embarrassment,

            as if I’ve been playing cricket in the heat.

            Bad enough having Jim

            see this part of me, naked,

            without imagining it

            dog-eared, bulbous,

            stinking, swollen, disgusting.


Jim kneels by my foot

            so close I could rest my chin on his golden head.

            “Hey there.” Jim’s normally buoyant voice is soft.

            One of his knuckles, rough as a cat’s tongue,

            brushes against my inner thigh

            as he helps me pull on my “shrinker sock.”

            His accidental touch tickles,

            sending an uncomfortable flutter through my stomach.

            “Veda? I’ll make you a leg you can dance on.”


I feel dizzy as if I’d stood up too fast,

            though I get up slowly on my crutches.

            Dizzy at the sight of him kneeling by my foot,

            dizzy at the thought of Jim and me alone in his office,

            his dazzling eyes watching me dance

            on the leg he’s promised he’ll make me.





IN

the

EYE





I’m at the table finishing my homework

            when I glimpse Paati in our kitchen

            wiping beads of sweat off her brow

            with the edge of her white sari.

            “Paati, let me help.”

            “I was going to make you some uppuma.”

            “I’ll cook my own snack. You do too much for someone your age.

            Chandra’s grandmother sits in front of the TV all day.”