By Anju Kanwar
3 in the morning the game is no longer a game, and I keep score feverishly.
Set aside grasses, rushes, root and bark with wooden base across spokes of reed.
I hold bamboo, some dyed jute, in empty basket symmetry.
Strangled at birth still thoughts rush to become the past, seize the sounds
in this house these rafters till I am wide awake on a stake watching limbs sweep up and down
like a grisly carousel to dance in deadly tune. I go round and round and travel
lives to find my own ghost greet me. There is a snake where a rope used to be.
Let me coax it into light, then undo that wily braid. Toss it away.
Then scrape those thorns on green briar patch, red blackberries.
Wake up God, make him listen. Still the fear: does he understand worshipping?
The monsoon is finally here. Yesterday, the silver drops . . . the writing is a trembling gray
of the hand that isn’t here. I trace each word, draw pictures in eyes, weigh full the atria, till all
those days in-between disappear like blood withdraws then drenches.
I twine bamboo, some dyed jute, make a basket in sunburst wheel.