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Hanuman Puja
Sunrise ocher marks the river’s forehead, wet dhotis betray supplicants bare as opaque windows, their secrets. It’s no secret, my petals wreath my crown in marigold, a glow I’ve nursed into nova when I cracked, from drought, my pericarp, thirsty for God. I have always been a honey man, coat of a langur, pilgrim- body of fruit- offering cast onto the tongue of deity I prayed would move in me. No sweetmeat to sugar the idol carved of me. The devout fill brass kettles, fill God with God, to offer running water to Sun, as mantras insist from the temples; the adhan’s pollen drifts— yes, God is great. Along the ghats umbrellas bloom in red, I breathe into nostrils of marble: The name of God is Truth— vendors hawk neem branches to scour mouths in bitter.