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Sri Lal
Crows

i.
I come from nowhere,
and I have nowhere to go,
I tell the crow perched 
on a low neem branch 
beyond the Periyar River.

He agrees.

He and I are free.
We speak the same language.

You know who I mean. He eats 
the garbage you and I toss aside— 
the endless sacks of rubbish 
hauled down to be burnt 
at the water’s edge,

like a secret in the dark.

ii.
I have seen smoke plume 
like the crown of peacock
feathers my blue love wears.
 
Garbage burns beside the river,
but I dream that he woos me
with white champa bloom.
His hands are like the water
on my skin. 

Still, some nights, 
the fire of rag and bone rises 
so that even the crow 
cannot sing for the smoke. 

Some nights, the blaze 
chafes my throat,
and swallows the sky whole.

Some nights of jasmine bloom
and sweet rice, I am
mute in the face of love. 

iii. 
So many crows, some say—
the erratic caw,

and I remember cities far north, 
where monkeys climb the temple walls.
They swing and chatter

like a mind that longs 
for enough gold to buy 
an unbruised freedom,

like flesh and bone that hunger
for a gentle touch in the night.

Wherever we are,
some cry carries us
away from ourselves—

the voice of a crow,
an unquiet mind, 

the cremation ground
where a father’s beatings 
go up in smoke,

or the bronze tongue of the temple bell 
that calls good souls to prayer.

iv.
This saffron hour before dusk,
a small silver mallet tunes the tabla—

knocking dowels up and down.

Soon, bhajan will rise 
beyond the firepit
beyond the wisping smoke 
of jasmine and sandalwood.

I have not yet washed
clean from hauling garbage.

I stand beyond 
the stone-pillared hall,
by the big tub sink, 
run cold water across my arms.

A crow alone sees me, 
in a way most men do not
see the lesser sex.

We are outsiders, he and I.

His call is full of longing,
and I answer back
beyond the liturgy of temple rite,

the cry from my own throat 
a song he understands,
my small mouth open 
like red lotus before dark.

Published in Doubly Mad
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