(for AS who wonders about ishta devtas)
It’s about learning to trust
the tug
that draws you to a shadowed alcove
undisturbed
by footfall
and butter lamps,
a blue-dark coolness
where you find him
waiting patiently,
that perfect minor deity –
shy, crumbly,
oven-fresh, just a little
wry, content to play a cameo
in everyone’s life but your own.
A god who looks
like he could understand
errors in translation,
blizzards on the screen,
gaps in memory,
lapses in attention,
the gnashing mixer-grinder,
the awkward Remington stutter
of your heart,
who could make them his own.
After that you can settle for none other.