RETURNING TO PRAYER by Satya Dash

The bulb glows amber
on the roof like an orange
I have always
wanted to eat but felt I didn’t
deserve to—this roof
where I had my first
kiss, not knowing
with such a touch, my lips
would slip into a realm of thirst
I was told by my parents
to never wander into.
From this moment on, it didn’t take
much to be excited. The disappearance
of lemon cake crumbs in the folds
of the sofa salivated my tongue.
Vegetables drying under the sun,
waiting their turn to be pickled
unblocked my troubled nose. And who
in our times wasn’t comforted
by the sight of a man carrying a package in his arms
looking for your signature!
I return home after months
and my mother is sick.
She is unable to walk
from the pain in her joints.
Under the night sky I stub a cigarette
on my palm—my call
of faith to the stars I know I will never get
to visit. Imitating a high-stakes candle,
I try slow dancing
on the edge of the terrace,
the wind surging across my shirt
like a child running
after a falling kite.
I utter a prayer I barely remember
as the heart-shaped
peepal leaves sway
to embroider in calligraphic black
the healing surface
of the moon.