I live in the Grand Canyon,
a chasm between
where I am and
where I want
to be;
A dry river bed that once
bubbled over with mirth, raindrops
and sparklings garnets along the
banks of the gentle Teesta.
We hang nets to dry, on
the ropes that gag us, and
strain skyward to remind ourselves
of how unforgiving blue can be.
Over on the other side, the
desert rocks moan
narratives of mothers, babes born tense,
and lesser wars.
Riding spider legs
on the long trudge home,
I am Ophelia, I am Atlas,
powder within, plaster without
and the best is night
when the walls mirror roof mirrors deep, deep heart
and we stand on a cliff
windless, sail-less, bending over
backwards
to
just
be.
Vox populi