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
No comments:
Post a Comment