By K. Hari
/ First Place, 2024 Plentitudes Prize in Poetry /
at dawn on the balcony, clothesline strung
up with birdsong before light and clear shot
to our indigo hills, we set out early to drink
right from a river you say is still holy enough
to be clean. Noon, you shelter in God’s palm
fronds while I lift into the rusted metal lorry
bed, to pluck gold berries with a name I’ve lost.
As you flip the pages, I save those drops of sun
for times when dusk comes early, indefinitely,
as during war in a country that may not exist
much longer, but has mountains and shores
like this land where I should’ve been raised.
My feet back in ferric earth, you finish with
the tome I tied into our grandmother’s sari,
to still its spine in border crossing’s ricochet.
The book is too heavy in grief for one family,
you say. Still, I allow you to wrap me in the sari
for prayer. At dusk, ghosts emerge in the ritual
power cut, but I see well enough to recognize
love: your silhouette in smoke, holding sandals
above the river shrine, allowing my bare soles
to wander. By the bank, I leave our suns along
with my tongue as offering, returning severed
sister—my lost parts are the book’s every page.