I am the many-armed
goddess of the market-going
and market-coming-back-from,
a sacred balloon tied to each child’s wrist. Death
of shrimp.
In the middle of the night, you better believe
I am the mongoose.
Beside me lies the lump of Man, unconscious,
who does not hear (and maybe could never hear)
the stirrings of Nag,
a sound so different from the heat.
Look at me, Darzee:
how viciously and how lovingly
I put the rinds of the melon onto the melon bed.
Originally published Spring 2010.
Euphony Journal 