The Wheel

Someone is about to come but doesn't. Is about

to turn on the stairs but doesn't.

I button my shirt

come from the laundry with all its dazzling blots,

like one's peculiar fate.

I shut the door, sit quietly.

The fan begins to whirl

and turn the air into a whirlpool of fire,

making a noise bigger than the house.

Someone is about to come and doesn't.

It doesn't matter.

Calmly I lean against the wall,

become a wall.

A wounded bird on my shoulder laughs raucously,

laughs at the shoulder it perches on!

My soul of flesh and blood puts a long thread in the needle's eye.

I stitch a patch on my son's umbrella.

I pick his nose and name the pickings:

I call one "Elephant" and another "Lion."

Someone is about to come and doesn't. Is about

to turn on the stairs and doesn't.

I tickle my children,

they tickle me in turn; I laugh,

with a will; for I do not feel tickled.

It doesn't matter.

I scan their fingers for signs:

Nine conches and one wheel.

Note: "Nine conches and one wheel" are formations of lines on the tips of fingers which, in Indian palmistry, foretell a happy life.