99poems/sarong

Summer.
I take out
my sarong
from its bag,
the anklet I
wear when I
go barefoot.
There’s been
so little time
to prepare.
It always
comes too soon.
Everything
does.
My goal
for the season,
to avoid
ice cold drinks.
To court Agni
like a lover,
while trying
to stay cool.
A white cloth
across my face.
My feet are happy
for the saltillo tiles,
a bit unfriendly
in winter.

In Sanskrit
Sara means
essence.
I want to take
it for a name,
but fear what
it would become
here.
A woman in a
bonnet,
who looks for
a horizon
as she shells
peas,
and cannot
find one.
A woman
who lives
the sort of life
my mother
lived.
One devoid of
the long view.

Indian women
are lucky,
they get to
glitter,
they are
geographically
well placed
that way.

6/14/99