Culture
Holy grain
Ammachan, I took the dust of your feet,
you inhaled the scent of my hair.
Fingering the tulasi plant of Rama Vilas
you stood quietly
while I flung stones at crows,
you stood,
leaves sprouting from your fingers,
while I read giddily, flinging my mind
in circles solipsistic
anotherworld,
from where I sometimes believe
I never returned.
Thinking of you,
leaf quiet,
feet firmly planted
on black stone floors,
my ears craning after
your hoarse whispers
about beautiful Rama,
his smile
a field of white knife
and so I stutter today sacral verses,
perched on one swollen toe, wreathed in the woodpulp screams of a crumbling city
while below, pigeons scratch cement
for a sparse, holy
grain
and I cradle poison in my throat
and the tightwire sways