janelle paris
The god of gravity This rain in Berlin is unforgiving, water cold As icicles; I brought with me no coat, only my Mother’s sari, my father’s recipe book, a suitcase, Prayers. Before I left Mumbai, I went to the Temple of Ganesha to pray for rain; perhaps My god would give way to downpour. It had grown Too warm in my country, my people dropping Like flies. There is a heat that makes the brain Delusional; blood dries up along stunted straits; The heart halts. On the news, we hear, India heat wave death toll tops 2,000, and you ask me for the first time If my god ever answered my prayers. There is a pain a platter of offerings can Not account for. I drape a garland around The elephant-faced god, and a boy in Punjab clutches at his neck in thirst. I leave Bananas at the temple, then two thousand Becomes three. Mantras are death hymns in denial.
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