Dot Head

They caught us once between the Cypress trees, a block from our apartment complex, where

the hallways always smelled of beer and boiled rice, though I don’t remember exactly, just two boys on bikes, the flash

of sunlight on steel handlebars, words sharp, and the bite of mosquitos that burned our ankles. Something hard

hit my brother in the head. A red bindi in the center of his forehead like a rose blooming, like the ones I saw my mother wear, but

his bled down his face. A dot head, a sand nigger—one of them who never freckled during recess, skin dark as almonds,

smelled of curry and spices, ate their sandwiches rolled up in brown bread. Except they got it wrong. No matter how many times they rode by,

chasing us with words, with rocks and broken bottles spitting at our backs, they got it wrong. It was a sign of being blessed

after temple, of celebration when women wore them, red-gold to match silver-threaded saris to match red and green glass bangles that shivered

up their forearms, my brother’s jagged, glittering more than a pundit’s thumbprint, more than a holy mark, glittering.