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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AuthorI like poems. Archives
July 2021
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