The day they came to ask
for my hand, I recollect clouds
of steam from the kitchen,
a singed animal smell.
Windows streaked
by the start of the monsoon,
faint sound of a harmonica
from somewhere up the road.
Several times I passed myself
in the hallway mirror.
No longer sure which way
was coming, which was going,
I drank the tea they brought me.
Someone may have used the word
auspicious in a sentence.
This would fit the way such a story
might be told. But I looked around
and there was no one to absolve
or confirm any splinter
of misgiving. Wet leaves
at the bottom of the cup
drew a shape, but refused to say
anything of the new
country ahead.