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
Copyright ©
Sri Lal
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