When I am more seed than harvest, 

 

More clay vessel than flowing nectar, 

 

Both waif and water witch,  

 

When I've been hollowed and refined, 

 

Been the doe killed and reincarnated 

 

As tabla, my skin pulled tight 

 

Over brittle bones and the fury of my fathers, 

 

And my fathers’ fathers sounding with each drum blow, 

 

My flesh eroding slowly from within, 

 

When I have been both the dholak and the tune, 

 

And embraced grief - how it can trace its fingers

 

along The cords of a voice and split the heavens in a hymn, 

 

In summons for the souls to draw close. 

 

When I have strolled solitary in the Ganges’ flow -

 

The sacred river a somber, twirling entity before me, 

 

The currents caressing to hug my calves, 

 

My soles sinking further and further into the silt, 

 

My daughters soul in that submerged realm extends a hand in reply, 

 

To draw me nearer to call me home 

 

but there is nothing left but to wade into the water —

 

the wind shaking my hair    the setting sun in my teeth

 

 

Of the submerged, of the journey from nirvana to karma, I bid

 

A fiery, intense goodbye.