I bring her to meet you  

when I’m sure no one else is coming. 

Still, I scan the scrawls in the guestbook. 

It seems your hypervigilance has found a new home in me. 

You have never been more trustworthy. 

You won’t remember how she moulded 

red rice, spinach and yoghurt into child-sized balls,  

how she nudged your mouth open with her fingertips,  

how she fed you the way she feeds your grandchild.  

Priya kunju, I like her. You’re happy, you say. 

You won’t remember.  

​​This sickness eclipses ​     ​​ 

the other we’ve lived with our whole lives.