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