The Women in this Village

 

the women in this village

are the running off kind

 

leaving

 

saucers (not cups)

stained with lip marks

and chai

 

papers

documenting primary school marks

 

pundits, charts and prophecies

 

slates

carrying the awkwardness

 

of a first son’s

meticulously

drawn lines

of the first alphabet

 

leaving

all that marks the beginning

of a making

of a life

 

running off

 

taking

 

only their babies and their men on their backs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Centavos for the Village Idiot

 

for one who will not supplicate himself

will not

speak from his knees

for stale bread

 

centavos

 

for one village idiot

 

hidden

on this body that will not beg

will not

ask for a man’s touch

 

centavos

 

rooted from gutters

fished out of wishing wells

 

collected

for a beggarly kind of love

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Village Witness

 

i will lead you

 

into a land

into the shadows of a room

 

under a delhi sun

we will stand

 

in a land i was born in

in the lines of a room i was birthed in

 

in heat

 

we will stand

on solid ground

 

in delhi heat

 

i will tell tales

 

of the things that happen when ground gives way

 

monsoon rains stealing

that spot

where life began

 

(though you still will not believe)

 

still a village will bear the weight of my tale

and the weight of your disbelief

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For an Aunt

 

my poa-ji died today

her name i have never learned

 

i know only this

 

an illiterate woman

who grew her sons into

a pilot

a physicist

a politician

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Translation

 

in mexico suicide is a verb

 

translated

not into the telling of what has been done

(he committed suicide)

 

but

 

translated

into the doing

translating that hand that ended that life

 

he suicided himself

the mexicans say

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Indian Logic

 

my uncle bit on the fruit of his tree

a guava fruit a guava tree

 

a seed planted itself in the root of his jaw

 

prophesying the beginning of a lifetime of aching

of weddings and births of grandchildren

of deaths and his own cremation

 

endured

with that seed paining

 

he cut down the tree

that bore the most beautiful of fruit

 

my aunt

spotting a first cavity in the making

had her teeth all removed

 

now she sits grieving

 

her sister followed suit

 

i am the niece of two aunts and an uncle

 

and the daughter of a woman

who plants a mango seed in Toronto