Banjara

On my birthday you were born

in my grandfather’s town,

the same amber dust settles on us both,

ready for monkey tails—paint brushes.

What a surprise to learn

I am like you, not from any metropolis of god

wandering beneath jonquils, peepal trees,

the spring cherry petals of New York

showering the city’s black rivers

in pink—

the torn sails of  my mother’s silk—

An Urdu poet asks,

What rest finds the wanderer?

The smell of burning garbage, the early morning fog

hides each sleeping body, flower buds.

Yes, I like your wool scarf and I could have pushed

my fevered body uptown that day

even if it did deck me in the jaw.

Had I known

the Urdu word for the resurrection

fern would you know I mean

in drought fronds turn umber

until some random drop

breathes green back into forgotten feathers—

One day I too will wear sky.