Hanuman Puja

Sunrise ocher marks

the river’s forehead,

wet dhotis betray supplicants

bare as opaque windows,

their secrets. It’s no secret,

my petals wreath

my crown in marigold, a glow

I’ve nursed into nova

when I cracked, from drought,

my pericarp, thirsty for God.

I have always been

a honey man,

coat of a langur, pilgrim-

body of fruit-

offering cast onto the tongue

of deity I prayed would move

in me. No sweetmeat

to sugar the idol

carved of me. The devout

fill brass kettles,

fill God with God,

to offer running water to Sun,

as mantras insist

from the temples;

the adhan’s pollen drifts—

yes, God is great.

Along the ghats

umbrellas bloom in red,

I breathe into nostrils of marble:

The name of God is Truth—

vendors hawk neem branches

to scour mouths in bitter.