A Fire Rises

Sri Lal A Fire Rises A fire rises in the pit of the gut— and I forget myself. At the grey langur’s door, I give up. I cut my hair, dance bare in the Bhadra rain. Who am I? I ask myself, again and again. From the shadows of a mango grove, two birds sing of sweet and bitter fruit. Two fires rise— Between lust and rage there is no difference. In the cowshed shrine burns a fire of loss, a fire of vow and surrender. Fire is fire to she who holds no thought in mind but one who rises from ash, who sends forth a holy river from his hair— one I have known since before I was a whisper on dark water. Published in Doubly Mad