I was star-gazing on the rooftop. The man on the moon began to descend, he grabbed my hand and took me to Jupiter.Read More
Cells of longing sleep beneath
the bed of earth, a dream-in-waiting,
whispering in the shadows,
knowing more about us than we do ourselves;
knowing who needs a dream with thorns,
who with lilies, who will wake with a whimper,
who with sweet remembering.
There was a knock on the door.
Darwin, at first, just ignored.
There were four knocks the second time.
Darwin thought opening the door might be fine.
He did this and what he saw made his jaw drop to the floor.
Early morning: we heat the fire in the kitchen, and the man who had the flashlight gives me small chunks of wood to throw into an open pit in the ground. He whisks the lava, creating a mesmerizing effect that dissipates into mere scent, inviting and coarse at the same time. His wife brings over chicken soup in a pot, dented so much it seemed as if the creature was still fighting its way out. She tells me that the man without the flashlight killed a chicken for this, and Baba says thank you. Apparently, it’s custom to do so, but I can’t help look at the chickens in the garden, strutting through the caked mud glittered with seeds. When Baba said he woke up to the squawks and fluttering of wings, I’m surprised I didn’t hear even the shadow of an echo. Breakfast is delicious, I later realize.