 I don't hope for hibiscusthe first time I was given a cup of flower essence it was hot, unsweetened, red like lovers clotted in my veins. slid down the column of my throat like a thread to mend the ruptures. its steady tartness replaced my blood, flushed free every time I blushed so you could see me. the first time I was given a cup of flower essence its sour revived me from reverie loosened me from trance, from storms I’d rehearse daily. I woke up a drained riverbed, damp and sifting for silt. I woke up my love a different shade darker than the bottomless color cupped in my hands darker than the hollow of two bodies. I woke up and chose mud over blossoms oxygen over rain clouds. this slow healing over hemorrhage.
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 every morning I untangle prayer beads knotted while I slept. I set dislocated beads back into spine back into snake back into my grandfather’s hands pull them along a string of story goats we raised ourselves and slit vertical at Eid; kites we pushed from terraces; clothes baked in half by Bombay sun; and this river of women in which I fall into trance and rhythm. clap-lunge clap-lunge clap-lunge-whirl during festival which is always if you pay attention to the moon. my fingers fumble the spaces between artifact and excavation. clicks like gallops of fate clicks like generations what we pass and what we save until wilting. every morning I untangle messes of prayer beads wound round my throat borrow slack from tightrope and grandmother’s drawstring billowing skirt and mountain passes purple silk I tuck into when valleys turn abyss and names of God routine. Prayer Beads |
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July 2021
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