(wondering about Kartikeya, Muruga, Subramania, my namesake)
Trust the god
back from his travels,
his voice wholegrain
(and chamomile),
his wisdom neem,
his peacock, sweaty-plumed,
drowsing in the shadows.
Trust him
who sits wordless on park benches
listening to the cries of children
fading into the dusk,
his gaze emptied of vagrancy,
his heart of ownership.
Trust him
who has seen enough –
revolutions, promises, the desperate light
of shopping malls, hospital rooms,
manifestos, theologies, the iron taste
of blood, the great craters in the middle
of love.
Trust him
whose race is run,
whose journey remains,
who stands fluid-stemmed
knowing he is the tree
that bears fruit, festive
with sun.
Trust him
who recognises you –
auspicious, abundant, battle-scarred,
alive –
and knows from where you come.
Trust the god
ready to circle the world all over again
this time for no reason at all
other than to see it
through your eyes.