in May of 2021, oxygen escapes the

country like the instant oats I watch Abba

look for on Amazon, a week before they

carry him to the ICU like a grasshopper

unto the clouds. I can only hear his tepid

breaths when the ward boy asks if I want

to see him on video call. Before I can blink,

Abba is whispering to me: the food here r-e-a-l-l-y

sucks. That night, I look on as phalanges gather

on the sidewalk facing the window, praying for

the swell of Abba’s belly. I am now seven, scouring

for charred husks with other children squatting on

the asphalt. One of us is beckoned by the blue-ribbed

ghost who has her chin. A nice man in an ironed kurta holds

out a half-eaten milk sweet, and she follows him into the

house with feathered curtains. Someone taps my shoulder.

Ma said she needs to use the sheet now. I clutch onto the stinking

cloth fastened around my waist, and run, past water buffalos

gathering in a paddy field like melanin in my knees. Somewhere

in the north, a sahib officer sets fire to my new ghost-Abba’s teeth.

Under a dining table, a beagle waits for the little blonde girl to sneak

it braised rabbit and a fistful of coastal rice.