Prayer Beads | Southern Humanities Review

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