At the tail end of the year 
Leaving the dry season behind, 

I saw leaves the color of sparrow’s wings 
Dissolve into the brickwork of a railway station, 

A sudden turn of the head and there she stood 
On a dusty platform, wool sweater 

Smoldering hair, the familiar heaviness of flesh, 
Aged a few years, my sister-in–law 

After all the winds of the underworld will do that to you, 
By her side a suitcase 

Glistening leather bound with straps, 
Inside a packet of powdered rice 

A morsel of coconut, three red chilies 
Fodder for the household gods. 

*

Last night in dreams I watched her 
In a crush of women severed from their bodies 

Drifting as slit silk might 
In a slow monsoon wind. 

By her, in a kurta knotted at the sleeves 
—Who knew that spirits could beckon through clothes—

The one they called Nirbhaya—
A young thing, raped by six men in a moving bus

(She fought back with fists and teeth) 
Near Munirka bus station where I once stood

Twenty-three years old, just her age, 
Clad in thin cotton, shivering in my sandals.

*

Now I hear them sing 
In delicate recitative 

My sister-in-law and Nirbhaya, 
That other, less than half her age, 

A song as intricate as scrimshaw 
In vowels that flowered 

Before all our tongues began, 
Their voices 

The color of the bruised 
Roses of Delhi. 

In memory of Jyoti Singh Pandey 
(1989–2012)

Excerpted from Atmospheric Embroidery by Meena Alexander. Copyright © 2018 by Meena Alexander. Excerpted by permission of Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

Meena Alexander

Contributed by David Lelyveld