Tattvamasi, You Are That

The god of fire descends

to light the forest, to fill you

with what hollows. Everyone you meet

you scorch. Somewhere inside

you an oak blazes—

don’t you know the bird inside

loosens her grip on the bough

and flies to the lake?

She wings now to carry water,

one beak filled at a time,

to douse the flame. She will not

let the forest, whose berries

plumped her breast, burn away.

Such devotion chills me to shame.

When have I ever shown

half such conviction?

___

On the stone path

             leaves smash their heads into bits.

Come to this garden. Some sparrow inside

             wants you to remember

yourself. The temple bell keeps

the hour of the falling

             branches. Here, not even

your shadow holds your feet:

tongues of your footfall.

             Hollow beaks are corridors of song.

Everything—stone, saints,

twigs—sings out. Listen to the notes

             of night’s mouth.

The bedclothes are its lips

and your body its tongue.

___

Don’t wait for your love

                                  to put his lips

           to your double reed

and play.

I have already said

                      your body is a shehnai

and outside monsoon cycles,

                       droplets drawn back

           into the sky

                       and rain. I tell you the truth.

 

___

           Ravens perch on your wire ribs,

the same lust for flame sleeping in coal’s heart

           stirs their litany.

Today you wake, ravenous.

           You follow your shadow for miles,

drag your wings on the road,

           and throw up maggots.

You want to be filled,

           to disappear into wine,

to make sweetmeats and sweethearts

           of  this burning.

___

To be in heat, a fire in your ear—

the heart’s feathered wrists fan

the ember until a blaze comets

past the mouth, until

your tongue vanishes—

___

A doe wets her mouth

with dew.     Soon she disappears

into the forest line.             Come,

spring throbs beyond

your closed door.     Come,

          pour wine. You’ve drawn

curtains to black out the windows,

what can I say?           Saturn and

           Mercury, crows and saints alike,

orbit the sun inside you.

           Your skin and bone

are a flute,      each lead a note

of music. Before the rain comes,

                                     come. Come play.