Tonight, I sink in memory foam
but I remember the mattress on which I used to ease myself in India–the thin, dirty one I came to love.
Other travelers, with their own obedient dreams, had slept on it before me, and so I didn’t mind resting my sooty, unsandaled feet on it at the end of a long day.
Now forced air hurries through my bedroom vents like an American promise, and I listen.
I do listen.
But I remember that wall-mounted AC that cost so much to run right before monsoon in that other life when the air swirled like steam in my lungs and I prayed earnest prayers about the electricity staying on all night.
That mattress, that AC, those prayers still live somewhere
though I soak in tubs of endless hot water now
and have cut off all my hair.