Leaning in close, you say it’s now, now, now.
On occasion, you call it seizing the moment,
your mouth smudged wet with its ripeness.
When I sit cross-legged, shut-eyed,
on the frayed straw mat your grandmother
wove ravenous longing into,
I call it being present.
Before me,
fists leaking dust,
dabbing blood with a saree edge,
pooling sweat in a valley,
washing wailing children’s heads,
war cry quivering in poplar trees.
I bring my attention back to the present.
To be rooted, you are first uprooted,
land-body-soul.
To be come, you are first shattered,
us-you-I.
I bring my attention back to the present.
Eternities flow within me.
