A Time to Dance(85)

            Disappearing.


On the stage,

            there is no dancer.

            There is

            only dance.





MY WAY TO PRAY





At home, bowing to my dancing Shiva,

            I say silently

            the words of the prayer Govinda taught me.

            My hands are lips.

            My body is voice.


As I shape the words

            “the entire universe is His body”

            an invisible hand flicks on the switch I’ve been fumbling with.


In my mind’s eye, I see my students.

            See the strength, the weakness, the curve of each back,

            the slope of each shoulder.

            Elbows with a natural bend.

            Upper bodies that jut out too far forward

            as though they’re trying to race ahead of the feet.

            No body perfect.

            No two children the same size or shape.

            But every dancing child a manifestation

            of Shiva in human form.





LETTING GO





The morning of my birthday,

            I ask Pa to come to the temple with me,

            where I’ve gone with Paati every birthday morning

            before this one.


In the vacant lot where the beggar lived,

            I see a scrawny boy dressed in a filthy T-shirt.

            He tears a thin roti in half,

            holds the bread out

            to feed a stray dog.


“Pa,” I say, “I don’t need to go to the temple.

            I want to give something to that child.”


Pa looks at the boy sharing his meager meal.


At home Pa helps me pack a bag

            with chappatis, mangoes, bananas.

            From under her bed,

            I take out Paati’s trunk,

            still full with all her things.


We give the food and the trunk to the scrawny child.

            “Shiva,” I say. “This is for you.”

            The child looks puzzled.

            “My name isn’t Shiva, but thanks for the food.”

            He opens the trunk and nuzzles his cheek against a sari.

            “I can use this as a sheet,” he says.


Above, I see a silver-gray cloud—

            the same shade as Paati’s hair.

            I let her image go.

            And I watch the cloud drift

            like incense smoke

            rising up

            high.





LETTERS

and

WORDS





Waiting at home are two envelopes addressed to me.

            One is in Govinda’s slanted handwriting.

            Inside it, I find three sketches:

            the first of the lotus pond where we sat together,

            the second

            of two hands shaping the symbol for an eagle in flight,