SARASVATĪ’S SCRIBE

SARASVATĪ’S SCRIBE

SARASVATĪ’S SCRIBE

I came in search of other gods:
the Vedic deities, the Mahadevis.
I found only a cripple
who limps along a narrow path,
lepers with hands like turnips.
Is this the form a god takes in the global village?
These children defecate
by the sacred river,
which flows into an archipelago of weeds.
The sweet smell of latrines suffuses
every bed I sleep in.
How sunlight is a blessing.
How the smell of shampoo,
or the fading cacophony
of Israeli voices is bliss.
And if it really is Durga Puja,
where is her wahan?
Who would think her tiger’s penis
is being used to treat impotence in China?
Perhaps I am mistaken, today, for Laksmī,
by the mother of a dehydrated infant
who begs a month’s supply of NAN.
See, my hands have multiplied.
To germinate pink lotus flowers.
To empty out a currency in five rupee coins.
How do I explain that I am not Laksmī,
but Sarasvatī’s scribe searching
for a swan’s slender neck, for the right words
to convince her that breastfeeding is safer
than imported milk
mixed with contaminated water.