A poem by Nikita Tilak
Sarah’s tawny arm twirls through London’s milky pail.
It tosses and turns like it is looking for sweets;
it is looking for the creamiest morsel amongst the masses.
Her hand is brown.
Sarah is a vein, a dark thread in the meat they process for the chicken tenders.
One of the off-cuts, one of the dark veins.
She withdraws her hand: wrist splashed helter-skelter with stripes of milk.
She shakes the fingers, flicks the droplets like sweat.
I am a dark vein she cries in her sleep –
but I am tender as the first drops of rain!
I promise you, I promise you,
I am a dark vein and I still pulse.