Every coconut has to have a moon in its fate. You see the moon happens as an appendage to our coconut trees, mostly, in early nights.
On a rain less night the moon rises over them as a beauty-flower in their hair in a dark sky. At times moons are mere light bulbs hovering on rooftops peacefully existing with coconuts.
When they are moons, not dim-wit light bulbs they may be broken with some moon missing. But they always stand by the listless coconuts encouraging them with a characteristic cool.
With a gentle breeze stirring leaves, this one is another future to build on. A tiny hill rising from tall grass now coexists with a temple for goddess. It has lost much of its shanks. There will be more foundations.
Up the hill is a space still unoccupied except for tin makeshift shelters for construction workers .
In my return I saw a termite mound . The termites have built it for snakes to live in. Not sure if snakes do live in them. But on the snake day people pour milk for them and embellish the mounds with red powder . It is all a matter of who builds for whom.
River noise swept by leaning trees and rocks carrying ashes of our living since dead. Rice balls were carried on rapid waters reaching distant rivers in hills. Our fire was lighted ,our rice cooked for our no longer kin but airy spirits.
We chanted strange words ,sonorous words that released airy nothings from real bondage. Strange words were airy nothings too . Bodies that looked at the sky disappeared the next morning in ashes of flowing water.
And we would collect two urea bags full of she who bore us into the world. Our boat would enter midstream and without looking back we would hurl her from our existence .All the while we would chant strange words that meant nothing to us or to her. Our words were ashes ,our love ashes a bag of of yellowed bones .
The dead live in the creation’s skull, in vast snowy wastes of north hills, where we offer smooth rice balls nicely rounded by our loving hand and the fastest freezing river flows below, where we speak in mantras.
We do not know our senior dead. So we speak softly of all our dead including the new dead in mantras. The dead hear us in the Creator’s skull where an ice stream flows green and we have to say unspeakable mantras in the oldest language of the dead.
Our rice balls are smoothly rounded . As there are no crows in snow hills we offer our rice to freezing river.
(At the Brahma Kapal (Creator’s skull) in the Himalayas we make our rice offerings to our dead)
We would finally land on mere fragments like bits of rain in the afternoon remembered, by white laughter that vanished behind teeth on a table waited on by the whitest of aprons. A gleaming white glass of the lift fell in a thud holding men and women in tourist backpacks.
At the entrance is two- horse buggy with men before waiting welcome scimitar by footman.The ceremony is a fragment of the afternoon. Inside is the beginning of a vintage photo-op that will stay fragment of a chance unrealized. The books promised fragments of afternoons of ancient people, who were mere fragments from everyone’s memory, itself a fragment.
However much one tried , fragments would always fuse together to form the poem whole.
Seventeen and clerk ,on work to support ,a sister who had embraced her electricity. He is the one whose elbow gently nudges now to a park bench for old men’s sitting,
A nephew lightly less old, kid at his elbow. Now eighty and two uncle stares at night as nephew stares lightly at his own night.
(Take care from falling and nightly bumps like your sister had before she hit the ice) . Sister was mother to this slightly old man and awaiting his ice to hit , nice and cold,nephew and breathing, in a jab at poems.
Poetry breathes before nephew turns ice, like all things breath before they turn ice.