Festival of the Goddess
Mother, you are not Plentybut a thin and grueling grace
just when I think
I might hold you
swollen and rounded
by coconuts and songs
you vanish into the gilt
of the pujãri's pages
and play, reed-like,
between the sticks of incense
you slip into the cement
still resounding with bells
just when I think
I have arranged my breasts
to match the fullness of yours
you become a small wind
blowing glimpses of red cloth
all the way up the mountain.
~ Laurie Patton
Fire's Goal - Poems from the Hindu Year
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