I had been looking under the bed for thirty-six minutes when my father stepped into the room, asked: what are you looking for — a golden egg? The corners of Kashmir? A dagger? More arms? A lost shoe? Are you looking for God? A seed for another poem?

In the shadow of the door, I grazed my knee against granite, never touching his gaze. So my father summoned my mother, my sister, my history professor, and my psychiatrist who demanded my weightless crown for their curiosities. The sky turned obsidian and rain scratched on the window with its cold nails for shelter. All my redflags sank under the bed. I kept looking. My sister looked more worried than my professor looked more worried than my mother looked more worried than my psychiatrist looked more worried then my father twisted the thread of my right arm into his, ordered my mother do likewise with my left, the professor on my left leg, the psychiatrist right. They carried me to the bathroom and buoyed me in the bathtub filled with bloodwarm water.

Floating in the bath for two and a half hours, my mouth was sand. I drank the bathwater until not even the mercy of water remained. I rose and peeled off my clothes. Wrapped in a towel, I felt newborn. My throat an open conch, my thirst a naked prayer.