Based on a Hindu legend.

 

As a young girl, you chased moksha—

the sky lantern—through the slums barefoot, 

ruffled swags of damp towels as you dove into the 

green pit where Amma scrubbed your clothes and yanked 

you by the neck, pinned you to her hip. You watched that light sink

 

into the water and prowl like the crocodile mouth—

hungry for you as you were for it. 

In the night, Allah’s realm awakened, buzzed

like disturbed wasps, an unfinished nest. Asleep, you

remembered the king’s despair and eagle’s eyes while

your spirit writhed in your frame. Your forward

 

mind distinguished Vishnu from sky and sky from lantern 

and lantern as apparition that bit back on dry flesh

and lantern and fist were the same—the Muslim fist that

tossed flames to Appa’s back and burned him alive in the street.

Some days, you lied afloat in the green pit

where other children played and felt the lantern’s cold skin

graze your ankles. Four arms extended from the sun 

to save you before the bite and the water turned silver blue, 

bubbled over onto sunbaked ground—the implication of Allah’s

 

love like white jasmine toppling in and out again and rising 

up toward Gajendra’s upturned tusks, which were your

tusks, and Garuda’s praying hands, which were your

hands held in prayer. You could then see all the 

evil lurking in the water turned silver blue.