‘I am stone, barely warmed by the fire’: These poems merge inner and outer worlds, ephemeral moments

Farewell by the river

Except for a neighbour, we were alone.
She gazed at me, opened her mouth reluctantly
for the pomegranate juice,
then waved it away; focused on
her last breath – a deep breath
drawn in, as her eyes closed.
In this holy town on the banks of the sacred Ganga
The lone crematorium was electric, the wait long.
We sat by the dusk-dappled river – its sluggish currents
heavy with earthen lamps, flotsam, grief.
Our turn. She was laid on the ground.
A priest hovered, chanting mantras of liberation.
A grandson fed her closed mouth joss sticks,
tulsi leaves, sandalwood, clarified butter …
then spooned butter all over her body.
I thought she would awaken, wave it all away
as unnecessary – like her life lived
on bare necessities.
Temple bells rang in a relay in the distance.
On rails, they slid her into a heated oven.
My heart hammered like a bell clanging for
my mother.
When her ashes cooled, an earthen pot
set them afloat on the holy river,
the currents coursing now with purpose,
carrying her away on a strong flow
lit by lights from a town on the other shore.

Leaving shadows behind

Less hunger, more a craving of taste buds;
an itch beneath the skin; unscratchable –
midnight-prone, satisfying neither itch nor hunger;
like filling an internal storage tank that leaks
for completing incompleteness.
Spilling into other hungers: justice for minorities, the poor;
like filling an external storage tank that leaks
for completing incompleteness.
So a search for clear thinking
but a hunger for clear articulation
for the skin must...

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