Chickens disturb the pebbles
just outside my bedroom window
as they skulk and search
for bark crickets. The neighbors
still mourn their youngest son,
caught under an oily car.
Four mornings here and each one
rings out funeral song and honk ::
green parrot and slender goat :: a clay dish
full of ghee. Saris tongue the wind,
trying to taste my grandmother’s
cinnamon plants and leafhopper wing.
Or the karimeen fish waiting
to be wrapped and steamed
in a single banana leaf for tonight’s meal.
A hundred bats fly inside my chest.
I hear them in my lung cave
while I am still. I want to stay in bed
a bit longer, wait until my grandmother
knocks at the door — her glass bangles
the only clink quieting what’s inside me.