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littlebird
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two hundred of us gather
cross-legged and eager
in the hippie church
to chant the names of Hindu gods
the devotional leader tells us
it does not matter
that we do not understand Sansrit
or pray to ganesha.
the kirtan, he says,
is a calling out to god
in all his (and her) incarnations,
an invocation of words we use
to stand for the unnamable thing
that teaches a spider to weave
that pushes a tulip stalk through the soil
that whispers to every pulse an urgent, "now!"
he says, perhaps,
if we chant as a dog moans for its absent master—
fervent, sad and unexpectant,
our longing will be a machete
to split wide our coconut hearts—
and from inside we'll scoop out the sweet, pulpy flesh of divine love
that was there all along.
om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
om namo bhagavate vasudevaya
that night
your sleeping shoulders and back
rise from the bed like a pale wall.
i wish i knew all your secret names
so that i might call out for you,
like wistful chords from a harmonium.
perhaps, if my chant were pure enough—
sita ram, ram, ram
sita ram, ram, ram
i would find—
you do love me
and have all along
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