folklore

It is believed in the town that the sun directs its light into the well
staining pearly radiance at the curvature where she aims the spittle

He mapped the channel of the dribbling  silver by holding her body
blue grey like the spent rivulet draining into the dry mouth of delta

A green snake taken in the mouth stirs under the tongue of moon
the cobra ascends from her groin fans out hood of desire in her breast

When pain colors like oleander she knows the blood flows in reverse
from the tip of the finger to the dying throat of the flower rasping for breath

The last time I saw him he was saluting the sun, his head a hive of memories
he did not know she was crouched over the fire as a last act of supplication

One hand on the slab of shoulder, the other cupped over her ear he called
into the empty house, primeval cry razed down the structures of language


 

Advertisements

Convergence (Sangamam)

Thoughts in the head air out lies by briefly
heaving out of the dark well. I grasp
the fumes from aubergine slumped on coal stove
ooze of deception on puckered skin
where I hollow out. The tissues shaped like death
coil in the finger held in a hooked fashion
as sand plugged all extremities. Eternity and mortality
speak the same language as you drop a rope into me
plumb the crust of earth to reach the star.
A storm of ashes in the ghat where rivers converge –
the Gomati who ends her journey and the Sarayu
from where I pick pebbles, immerse the last ball of rice.

 

Visitation

The dead crowd my legs
those who leave us late can never forget
they wander and find way between the lids of eyes
to spill into our dream

Maybe I did not till the garden with fervor
turn the soil under the light of stars, to see
if the seed splayed open in the breath of dawn, if end
of you is the beginning of me

I drape time on you as if it is enough
not to grasp the silk slip away through the space where
silence pools in your curled fingers that trace
the horizon as a jagged line

A river ran here fifty years ago, a wasteland now
the roots of trailers hear the rustle of water
that like ghosts let breeze blow through hollow shell
to grasp life that has no matter

The bird hollows out the sky ball sized, slices a path
taut like the birth canal – the only passage with no return
which then loosens in the vast breast of blue
under the gland that nurtures eternity

TheTwo Fires

I leave my voice in the              crevice
of the tree
above
the moon rises pale and grim
muted stars drop

in the bowel of my silence

Can time be timeless?
no color
shows up in the soft folds of the brain cramped
with lack of salt .         I feed the empty vessel
get into the folds of the brain up through
roof of the mouth that you have forgotten
how

to open

The world moves heavy
on nerve edges –
an eon passes before an image reveals
on cornea
and another falls like a fly from the wall

molecules mix into the health drink
arbitrate            between the two fires in my body –
one to keep me warm and coupled to you
another to rise to the gods
earth and sky weld in a blind heat of
dissolution.

Matrika

She went from shop to shop disbursing money, lifetime
like leaking faucet dripped before debt was paid:
she looked at clock every half minute, patient.

Two spans she counted placing the palm on the table: two
laps back and forth to cremate the dead across the river.
That was the third gone, her womb was shredded flesh.

Two months exact before the climb up the hill, fuzz of grey
in the middle of vision, a pillar of dusk covered the earth
and the egg like sundried fig curled on the heat of the stone.

She single handed reforested the hills, the trees first – always
begin from large to small. Who would put in the birds, insects,
the spiders, specially the pebbles entranced by the brook?