A single red sclera scans linoleum.
It encloses the
white irises that I bathe the milling men and
women and children in. They are scattered
on the smooth floor.
I stare down
rows neater than hangars
columns of dates and times, and flights
an endless array of white arriveds
and red lates.
I spit out the brisk walking
businesswoman, the curly haired teenager,
the bearded man with a black mandala
on his shirt. Their shells roll with them,
worn as their faces. Tiny heads crane
to look through my eastern gate—searching
for mothers weary, fathers hurried, siblings
with sound proof headphones and textbooks
weighing their carry ons. A crumb-fingered child
hops to his mom, and a sister hands her a damp bouquet.
A woman cannot stop her wide, toothy smile
directed at my open mouth.
I chew all who are missed, so their faces weary are
lit up red seeing the ones caring. I chose the boundary
between away and returned. I decide when their waiting
comes to a halt. I watch over them in red, bold.
Unnoticed. In the end, no one disobeys my
command. In the end, none of the travelers
ever turn back.
— Diya Naik
