Sacchi’s mother set herself on fire  

the same year Meeta graduated from 

law school. 

 

Did the air smell like 

flesh or gasoline? 

 

Sacchi told me 

in hypotheticals and long walks across 

her India ground,  

that her mother was dead.  

There was no talk of fire. 

Just of fathers and wild dogs.  

 

She did not stay for dinner  

when our talk was done.  

 

Meeta told us the truth— 

casually, in the middle of a chat— 

to the secret I thought I knew  

over European chocolates and our American hands  

crossed neatly on each pair  

of air conditioned knees. 

 

There was no breath in the air 

so we left it all. Only as it was.