Where the river runs dry,
barefoot children chase
warped rubber tires,
and wild dogs with wire collars
bury fish bones in the earth.
Where the river runs dry,
memories of water burn
like the imprint of a naked body
on crumpled bedsheets:
the curve of her back
the arches of her feet.
Where the river runs dry,
concrete chimneys stand
on the graves of minarets,
spitting plumes of smoke
that swallow a ceiling of blue sky.
The river runs dry
somewhere in the Thar desert,
but still flows through the mantras
uttered by bony priests and
echoed by wounded lovers –
“Sarasvati, Sarasvati, Sarasvati…”
