A month stands between us
and the breaking of our hopes.
If it is to be here,
let it be a temple elephant
painted with the regalia of Lakshmi,
like the two-ton devotee of Vishnu
who danced from foot to foot
shaking her chain of bells, who
for a rupee coin tapped her fleshy nose
on the crown of my head,
blessing me while I carried
the first seed of a child.
Yes, I say, let there be
this elephant in the room
while we try to stop wringing our hands.
Let it be the one who blesses us in the void of unknowns.
Stay close, where I can
feel the bristles of your
boar-thick hair, scrubbed skin.
Let me marvel at the height of your toes
the wrinkles of your knees,
touch the insides of your ears
with tender admiration,
as harmless as a
fly buzzing around your
monumental, unmovable presence.
Let it be your room after all,
when you live here more than we do.
You take over, sleep leaning on the couch,
toss mattress and pillow stuffing in the air
in search of things to eat.
Step carefully when passing
from room to room.
Your mahout with stoic gaze and reed
can stay here too. Your presence grows
the size of what we contain.
In the space we expand for you
all are welcome
to share our dumb-struck awe,
our uncertain fumbling hands,
the kind eyes tinged
with dark, unknowable things.
Your own gaze the wiser
upon the blessing and the blessed,
you see beyond artifice
into what truly is.
Surely you, if anyone, can bring us some solace
while we tiptoe around you,
caressing you fondly,
asking if you are enjoying your stay.
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