There is a chorus line somewhere in this poem

Darshita Jain.

photo credit: The Federal

“First fight. Then fiddle.”
— Gwendolyn brooks

The fair ones from my country are trained to fit into a country not their own.
Fluent in this house painted in pastels—add white and anything feels acceptable.

Model the impeccable, the respectable, the neat.
No dust on the edges. No creases on the bed sheet.

I was unplanned, drawing curves. Paisley pastels. Mango lassis and pedas
hand-curved to fit in my childmouth.

Laddus for the first in line to be successful—laddus for the Indian girl
proudly making my way toward a world unknown. Brown and immigrant

here in America. I speak four languages; think in four—write in none.
I want to start with a scrawl. Maybe on a wall. “Train me to swallow howls.”

I can feel the ...irs and ...unjhs in my throat, screaming in pain, incomplete faces with half-names.
In the depths of sleep—hammered reminders; a local newspaper back home

reporting: 

“16 migrant workers forced to walk from one part of the country to another...”
Three days walking, fell asleep on a nonfunctional train track.

Carpenters, cooks, designers of the ‘colors of India’ walking
toward home—to sleep; to make love to someone they love.

“…ran over by a train.”
The trains ran. The trains ran, the trains ran. 

Tell me their names. Show me a face. Do your work. Send some help.
I saw a picture of those train tracks. No bodies. Only leftover clothes.  

Indian trains look ugly and dirty. On most days, they carry us with the produce.
Last time, I rode with garlic, ginger, Thai green chilies, oil

and sugar. The trains still bring us produce. 
Did they unload? Is it okay to cook pasta tonight? A laddu for dessert.

This week felt like sugar crumble clouds; touch and they are gone—dust.
I live in a room without gravity. Float trying to hold on to what I can.

The click, the save the store
--your icloud is full and unable to store any more.

Erase erase erase, trash something or buy more storage for more space.
Erase erase erase. Good morning, start again. Breakfast? Snacks? Let’s plan a meal someday?

Darshita Jain is a poet, journalist and educator based in Chicago. Born and raised in India, she recently graduated with a Masters in New Arts Journalism from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. twitter: @djain3 / insta: @darshitajain