When my father was a lawless boy
he snuck out to hunt deer with his friends
in the foothills of the Himalayas, in spring
dared his slim body into the snowmelt
of the Ramganga river. They slip from my fingers —
snatches of stories, a few photos of the Terai
pocked by the pug-marks of big cats: clouded leopards,
tigers, and night-stained panthers. It's after dark
in my dream. A man with a squat nose hunches
over a wood-burning stove, pours tea into a clay cup.
His ruddy face mirrors the dancing flames, flickering
so wicked I cannot tell when we cross the borders
of dream to somewhere lived. This is my land then,
part memory, part dream. Smoke-stung eyes.
Hands warm and primed for something wild.