| | Brooklyn, 1999
In the dream, I walked the narrow streets
Where butchers string up carcasses, but each
Dead body was a year I'd been away,
Their angry, hollowed stares accusing me:
You have no claim. You are no daughter here.
The next day, in a steep, dark stairway, smoke
From artemesia hung in the humid air,
And took me back to Delhi's cramped bazaars:
The cloying crowds, the eyes dissecting me.
But with the press came longing, too-- to hear
The punctual click the chowkidar's stick tapped
At night, to taste rose water syrup, or
Feel petals left on marble steps adhere,
Turning to stone-- to smell the jasmine first
At dawn and then to dusk in my own garden.
The years are real, not corpses, not unkind.
When I return, I'll wind through alleyways
Till sense obliterates the dream. And here,
When summer comes, I'll find some marigolds,
Pluck off the orange heads and thread them through,
String up the garlands, offerings to time.
-- Lynn Aarti Chandhok, from TMR 28.3
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| | Posted 5/25/2006 10:28 PM - 1 view - 1 comments
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