Where else could three children ride in on a wall;
an elder master bow from his tiger’s back?
Tuk-tuks beep, tongas roll. Where else but India?
Languages roll like monsoon clouds. English
stirs into something wonderful else.
Black tea, stir in three sugars– it’s India.
Charcoal, shit, sweat, incense. A leper woman
pulled on a cart; stumps raised, she shouts.
I’m eye-level in a tuk-tuk. Pay attention in India.
Cane. Millet tufts. Blue-painted booths yawn.
Flower-horned cows form traffic islands.
Krishna dances in India.
The British camped and packed. One last
cold mango juice. You’ll carry it all back home—
wherever that is now—whatever makes an India.
Forget what it is you think you know, Michele,
maybe even ever knew. Your karma got you here.
Samadhi? It takes lifetimes, even in India.
Michele Waering spent her early years in the United States. She has an
MLitt in Creative Writing from The University of Glasgow. Her work has
been published in From Glasgow to Saturn; A Thousand Cranes: Scottish
Poets for Japan; From Quill to Quark; Envoi, The Interpreter’s House,
Red River Review, World Haiku Review, The Ghazal Page and upcoming in
Shattered (Kind of a Hurricane Press). She lives in Renfrewshire,