untranslatable voices on the Bagmati, the river a smog-trickle, they lift you roughly in your orange robe out of the white coffin, dip your smooth feet into the current of grey bilge, upstream a woman washes her feet, they touch your hair, wrap your dark penis in cloth, your cousins or uncles maybe, where is your mother, nobody weeps, a woman sneaks in close to take a pic of your face with her phone, in your pocket they find a note (a “to do” list?), they lay a torch at your throat, your thighs are ash, your robe a wing, & as your toes boil I think of Joan & monkeys hop & slide across a temple roof, boys hock a loogie over the ghat, Nepali pop blares on a cheap radio, many witnesses along this bridge pigeons sail under, life is such a spectacle so why not death, your face fleshy, no promise of grey in your hair, basted in damp hay, washed in the Bagmati, under the smog sun, sadhus weaving among, stoned ghosts, cohorts of ghosts, thinking as stones think, dead to themselves, one dressed as Hanuman monkey god poses for pics, that which was dark & alchemical in you turns to flies, butterflies, your thick hair smoke & your eyes butterflies, the crowd too is smoke, your foot yellow in the pyre & your thigh protrudes, your hand open, thin fingers, palm charred, & two monkeys hump without love in the ford . . .
Son, no matter how far you travel or how smart you get, always remember this: someday, somewhere, a guy is going to come up to you and show you a nice new deck of cards on which the seal is not broken. This guy is going to offer to bet you that the jack of spades will jump out of this deck and squirt cider in your ear. But, son, don’t bet him, for as sure as you do you are going to get an earful of cider…