The Illumined

Poetry

Golden bells bloom, a sea of yellow on treetops­—

They will be gone by next week.

My fingertips are charred from cleaning oil

Lamps, and I roll cotton into wicks between my palms

Before bed. On the wooden stool: a mirror, rice on a gold plate,

New clothes to wear the next day, a white saree,

Jewelry, a few dollar notes, bananas,

Cleaned lamps, and Vishnu.

Morning comes, and my mother wakes us

By pressing her warm hands on our eyes. Head bowed,

And blind: I am guided to the altar.

The flame before Him is the first light I see—

Then the New Year’s sun greets me.