From wood to wood
teak faces painted red
I wash your feet
with salt from heaven’s rim.
I observe
the eye of god
from our window I
witness
the carving of sorrow
it sprouts from Shiva’s
black hair, the Ganga
seeps from it like a serpent.
we go to the temple
complaints like cigarettes
in the stub box
smoke suffocates our hearts
so that we can offer
god only dead things.
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