Moondrunk on Diwali
Mayi, I’m fine—it’s just that my mind, the little accountant
on the top floor, has surrendered sense. All he is left with now
is a sparkler behind the ribs, some electricity finding home.
Here—take his black pen, his red squiggles, light lines. At noon,
every one learns the way of light; every sum bathes in the shape
of sound. And here I rinse the rice and the living room rinses me
in air; the water drinks the moon, then clears. No one counts
color, yet color traverses everything—intoxicated—
even the ladle cradles a raw verse. Whatever goddess tends
night and gold, I just keep these lines of rice lamps,
hundreds of I’s and ones drying in a cup, without even a wobble.
If I wobble, it’s the song of rice, not wine; my bowl practices
the smallest poetry: I be, I be. Call it lightful, call it moonless,
call it non-sense, call it key—Mayi, this unlocked rice rooms me.
by Shivpreet Singh
—from Poets Respond
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