Some days I am just a rusted yellow,
a drooping, crumpled mess
The waters lashing on my eyelashes
a heart-rending tale.
Some days I am just the flames,
the choking silence of the pains of others.
My palms cupping the indelible marks
of bygone days, scalding.
Some days I slip into the liquid sound
of poems and boatmen’s songs,
My holy texts trailing after,
smudged, blown away in smithereens.
Some days, the water feels smug-clean
in my sleepy troughs and creases,
Some days, I am the blood
and the shards, the shameless smoke
and the cigarette stubs,
the poison that whirls in my subterranean flow.
I know some evenings
your breath brushes past mine,
And we are kindred souls,
burning in each other’s fire.
I know while you dig me
deep with your nails,
the dusk of death is in your skin,
amid the living, breathing mess.
Some days when the birds chirp
and the holy crows caw,
In your mossy banks, you sing a song
that once was your mother’s chore.
Today, you rinse your mouth with it
as you chant the holy ‘Om’,
and return home, in your parted lips,
it hangs, a primal hum.