Caught in entangled anchors
when only —
the dark weight above the forehead,
the throbbing pain in the knee,
and the mellow orchid
are befriended for the evening.

And I tell her —
allow your child to let go of my boy
so you too can go.

The orchid is my mother today,
released from the frame,
her cool blurred texture
dripping honey from muqarnas.

This time it is not me —
she is letting go.

The trumpet reveals —
indigo dots emanate from her petals
slipstream notes
through tunnels of glitter
draped in geometric patterns of her saree —

I heave open-chested
at the intersection of these paths
through raven puddles in Jimi’s Jungle,
they look down
from the windows of the haveli.

I wear the cellular mosaic of the serpent
my desert dunes glide light of sound —
puppets strung in sorrow
drip from beaded eyelids
in the meadows of dusk’s sky.

Having known all along
not wanting to see anymore
I hold my head with both hands
push deep into the pillows —

I reached my boy today.