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The Ganges
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Chelsea Kerwin
There is a river that flows
through an Indian city,
where the dying bring their bodies,
to be spread across tall log beds,
to burn
and end flowing in the river.
Here, bent necked women
slap sopping laundry on flat stones
and wring it out against the morning.
Deep salmon steps lead to the water,
there is no time
when men and goats do not walk
quickly up and down.
Men are everywhere, they are in the river
bathing, meditating, oaring
from their elegant, dirty canoes. Pink lotuses
and garlands of marigolds drift by aimlessly.
I have watched this river, watched it thirst
all the meaning from its worshippers.
Two dead dogs lie ignored on the stone dock.
The river is poison, foul and never full,
forget the flowers and the cleansing,
the ringing bells, the tambourine and songs
the perfectly absorbed streak of sunlight.
The tourists do not touch it, we do not
like to see even our laundry in this water.
A bodhisattva hunches up the steps,
leaning heavily on his stick,
his orange robes reach his feet.
Smoke rises from the burning Ghats
soon some new ashes will join the current
and he will ferry what remains across the water.
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