In my last life I was a woman.
I lived in India. Uttar Pradesh.
Sometimes I still feel like
a woman who lives in Uttar Pradesh
speaks Hindi, worships Siva
and the local goddess, Lalita as Candika.
Her man went to the city, never came back.
My man. He died. No one told her but she knew.
Her two sons followed him. My sons. Me,
I never left the village. Hardly ever left
that little yard where I squatted in the dust
and ground the meal, thrusting away the hen –
The lurki – the name comes back –
that I would never kill. I never saw traffic, not like now, here,
crowded streets, traffic lights, people thrusting and swirling,
clucking like a thousand greedy hens
pouring down into the underground and onto the train
locked in and rocketing beneath the city like in a submarine.
I want to get out. I want to get back to
my Indian roots. Or my submarine roots.
I never saw the sea then, either,
except in my dreams. In my dreams
I was a fish.