Artemesia

In the dream, I walked the narrow streets Where butchers string up carcasses, but each Dead body was a year I'd been away, Their angry, hollowed stares accusing me: You have no claim. You are no daughter here. The next day, in a steep, dark stairway, smoke From artemesia hung in the humid air, And took me back to Delhi's cramped bazaars: The cloying crowds, the eyes dissecting me. But with the press came longing, too—to hear The punctual click the chowkidar's stick tapped At night, to taste rose water syrup, or Feel petals left on marble steps adhere, Turning to stone—to smell the jasmine first At dawn and then at dusk in my own garden. The years are real, not corpses, not unkind. When I return, I'll wind through alleyways Till sense obliterates the dream. And here, When summer comes, I'll find some marigolds, Pluck off the orange heads and thread them through, String up the garlands, offerings to time.