I've only seen a photograph —
boats anchored on the muddy shoals
of the Ganges. Splintered canopies
on top of blistered bows and sterns,
sari'd women leaving their men
to wash, or launch the dead
among the reeds.
A shadow surfaces
of a passing nimbus
that could be a pod of something.
I've been taking my tea brewed with
cardamom and milk: olive green
pods half submerged in coppery liquid.
Stirred, it raises the silt
of the river, spreads the aromatics of
ceremony, produces the sensation
that life will be remembered.
by Eddy Yanofsky
from Blues & True Concussions : Six New Toronto Poets.