Kalliope 2015 | Page 66

Partition by Anitha Ahmed Papa shows me a photograph— A Chinese river, red as a wound. “How can it be transformed in hours?” he says. His tone is sharp—as if I had taken a knife to the earth’s jugular, as if my hands could stitch it together. “Must be a tide of red algae— it will go back to normal,” I say. Papa’s eyes darken: “These signs are no good,” he says. He says a thousand miles from the river, Pakis tani boys bleed for martyrdom or at the hands of foreign drones; their grandmothers burn still from rape. The seventy-year-old borders are still barbed, still crimson. Now, I study arteries. I study circulation. I learn to suture. Once, I stood on a stool and watched Papa mix a thread of saffron into my milk. Then, I only had to clench my teeth to refuse to drink. 66