Wedding Mehendi

               In a Baltimore hotel, we crouch on the floor,
the thin space between two pitch-white queen
               beds. Mehendi stains a brownish red,

I take care to touch nothing but skin. It occurs
               to me that this will be the first wedding
I go to in America. How different this would be

               in the other land. There, at nine years old,
I watched my favorite cousin marry. Days before,
               in the veranda, a dozen hands outstretched

like perches, the smell of moss & mint
               jumbled in the air. Threatened to smudge each
other’s faces, leave an orange paisley

               on the jaw. We waited until the mehendi dried
& crackled like clay, until mosquitoes
               drew blood from our wrists. I asked the artist for

long & ornate. Mehendi reached for
               my elbows like opera gloves. Afterward, we added
layers of lemon & sugar, revived the desert

               palm, prayed for the mehendi to turn a deep red.
Inevitably it faded, days after the wedding,
               like saffron dissolved yellow in warm milk.

Diligent, I traced over each shape, first
               with red ink pens (toxic to the skin, per Amma),
then learned eventually to pipe the leaf itself,

               hold the cone in the fold of my thumb. Elsewhere, 
someone’s livelihood, here, my haphazard
               hobby. On a quiet wedding eve, I makeshift tradition,

though a generation too young for this
               kind of translation. I squeeze fine lines, twist them
into vines, roses, birds. Amma’s palm lines

               unyielding, burrowed in the design. I am slow 
but perfectionist. Each time I begin, I am
               afraid I have forgotten how, that I have lost

my way like an old recipe. In another
               generation, maybe we will get our nails done
instead of this.