by Meena Alexander

by Meena Alexander
     I was young when you came to me.
     Each thing rings its turn，
     you sang in my ear， a slip of a thing
     dressed like a convent girl
     white socks， shoes，
     dark blue pinafore， white blouse.
     A pencil box in hand： girl， book， tree
     those were the words you gave me.
     Girl was penne， hair drawn back，
     gleaming on the scalp，
     the self in a mirror in a rosewood room
     the sky at monsoon time， pearl slits
     In cloud cover， a jagged music pours：
     gash of sense， raw covenant
     clasped still in a gold bound book，
     pusthakam pages parted，
     ink rubbed with mist，
     a bird might have dreamt its shadow there
     spreading fire in a tree maram.
     You murmured the word， sliding it on your tongue，
     trying to get how a girl could turn
     into a molten thing and not burn.
     Centuries later worn out from travel
     I rest under a tree.
     You come to me
     a bird shedding gold feathers，
     each one a quill scraping my tympanum.
     You set a book to my ribs.
     Night after night I unclasp it
     at the mirror's edge
     alphabets flicker and soar.
     Write in the light
     of all the languages
     you know the earth contains，
     you murmur in my ear.
     This is pure transport.