This poem is a recollection of the time I spent in India as a child.
God slipped in between the gauzy white sheets last night
she pulled at the bottom of my slip separating me from the warm sun that enveloped my barely there body
Begging for my attention
she was dressed in red like fire and roses and watermelon in July
Like the man who took a bite out of a pomegranate like it was an apple
she wore marigolds around her neck like I did when I was five
Like my mother did on the day she got married
she wore the ones in the Kainchi garden where I sat and tasted the sweetness of mangoes for the first time with my best friend
Where we chased each other into the terra-cotta pagoda hearing the faint chants of kirtan wallahs and cow bells
In monsoon season we would venture down the unpaved road in our bright pink rainboots to get toast from the Tawaris
piled up to my head and wrapped in crinkled tinfoil
She was blue like the dye from my skirt that would run into the river
She had warm hands like the milk she gave me in her garden, my hands have always been cold
I am in a house without her while it’s snowing outside and all I have is a child’s blanket to keep me warm
I miss you
I hope you’re doing ok
I can’t wait to see you again
Talk soon,
Lila
Her hair was always white like the temple walls
The ones I was a devi under
The ones I ate halwa and basin ladus out of a banana-leaf bowl under
She always reminded me of the trees during monsoon season, so big and full of life, the kind of life I didn’t see in New York
that’s probably what I remember the most about India how comic book green all the trees were and when we were driving around a bend and I looked down all I could see were those Technicolor trees for miles and miles
Sometimes I wonder when I’ll go back and how it will feel now that she’s no longer there