We slept on my grandmother’s porch, how we got there, who can say? Dogs approached, snarling and circling; I cried out, and you held me close. Later, came sounds from the road, a grinding of gravel and boots; you said it was Amit Shah’s man: he stunk of whiskey and malice. He said he’d be back in the morning, whether or not I was pregnant— as he left, the wind changed direction and brought back the scent of still water.
Late Last Night