Here

Our rice, comes from the terraced slopes behind the kitchen,

our milk, from the cow down the road.

In the mornings, a little girl in a dirty flowered skirt brings her bag of glass jars.

Unscrewed, poured into the metal pan Acha Puri’s set out for her.

Bright white,

thick cream clings.

Here, the military men stop our bus on the way to Kathmandu—

look inside our vats of egg curry—

above the seats for bombs.

Like the City Was Sick With a Cold or the Flu

Kathmandu smells of oranges and sewage. Cow manure. Smoke and diesel.

Men wear flowers in their hair.

There are dogs barking, people gawking, monkeys squealing,

photos taken—

as we chant at Swayambhu—

cups of Maya’s hot buffalo milk on the bus.

I Eat Them Hot

the banter of the hotel keeper. the key for the storeroom boy. rotten intestines. lumps of turquoise and coral. the inexplicable sweet taste in my mouth from burning garbage?

acha puri carrying black-soil-covered squash from the garden. children’s voices echoing across the valley. a thin string trails from a rooster’s leg. the furry chicks in the garbage, in the gutter. the leper by asura cave eating potato curry.

two girls jump rope with a chain. the robbers dig up the sandalwood trees at night. the doughnut man sits there all day making doughnuts in the dark—piling them on the ground. oozing bandages on the bridge.

I Cringed Away (in Nepal)

In the dark of night—

the front was red-lighted,

a fringe of tassled plastic flowers,

Bollywood star stickers.

They wore dirty brown shawls.

Covering their heads—

wrapped ‘round their shoulders.

One was little,

one was littler.

Short brown locks curling ‘round ears.

The tiny one breathed banana gum in my face—

poked me in the side again and again,

raising her hand to her mouth over and over.

Through Their Lives

tiny kids wear only shirts

green snot drips from noses

the stench of the pig in his pen, squealing,

pressing his snout through the window grate,

long teeth bared.

In the mornings, a dirty curtain covers his barred window.

The smell of piss.

Gardens of greens.

Women naked but for shawls wrapped round their bodies,

washing  hair by the gutter, at the spigot.

The chickens in the garbage. Cow patties.

A rooster mounts a chicken.

I

I was asked why I’m always sad.

cupping rain in my hands.

the sky.

a dog’s bark.

a shawl covering my head.

the drums in the night.

and the rustling of leaves.

the wind.

the sun.

and a leaking nose.

in the dawn

we circumambulate the stupa

the fever, the shaking cold

a square of holiness’ robe. his medicine (kudung ribu—made from his body’s amrita)

small paper cups of water. milky tea.

the shorn-headed little girl beggar. the sickly baby on her hip, head too big, arms too skinny.

this morning so quiet and still

the pop of insects against ceilings, floors. the mala on the wrist. keith’s dreams.

sounds of summer in the field.

the onslaught of bugs

the thwack of insect wings

the rain in the night--sheeting off the roof.

how the three sisters followed me again today--to the stupa and down--the red stone glittering in the nose of the oldest.

again, the nausea in the night, in the morning

bamboo in a jar. the glass dripping water.

the humwhir of a generator that sits in a truck

a pile of matchsticks on the floor. the pillow on the bed.

languid in the heat.

suddenly not noticing the trash

the small furry brown goat wore a khatak round his neck

a shadow runs behind frosted glass

to crawl into sleep