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Sun prayer

Walking in the predawn, syncopal / heat we revert to the guttural old / tongue.

Poetry | Poetry Tuesday, poetry
June 27, 2023

Walking in the predawn, syncopal
heat we revert to the guttural old
tongue. Though I am days late, 

Holi powder spatters the gravel,
a remnant of the mid-street pyre
yet burns for God. So I am still 

your little sister. When we return,
Periappa drums his rheumatic,
notched fingers on collarbone, on

sternum, to remember each Sanskritic
verse, and you help me find an offering.
I did not know I came so empty-handed.

Veshti tied white at his waist, vermillion
border a rising sun, he sets afloat hibiscus
buds, their words unfurling in brassy water.