The Mud

He rises naked from the steaming Mother of the World
Like some long pale ray of midnight moon
Her slick mud still kissing his hair
Like the black matted locks of a lover
'cause he sleeps where the jackals don't go
strange but no stranger to this land
and he smiles on Her arms and her legs
slouching invitations to Kalighat

He has traced the Goddess down to Her toes
sliding on cool thighs, slow and deliberate like a cat
beneath the ancient archway of Her shrine-
Temple of little deaths
And She waits for him, never quietly
Knowing She alone stole his native tongue
He hasn't had a thought in French
Since he first curled his lips on Her palm

For his lover he's bathed in the sacred, sacred waters
Tiger skin melting from his bones
With his hair he plays Magdalene to Kali's dusky feet
Predator become anointing oil
He calls for the goatslayer's cutlass, which in Her courtyard
has sung a thousand thousand bloody songs
and he opens for Her the deep taste of his death
that the Devi might dance on his hide

The Black Madonna bears him from the dawn
Lapping at the nectar of his offering
Her dark womb the temple of welcoming, for only She dances the dead
She combs the thick knots from his hair
And cleanses his skin of blood rust
The Fierce Mother is riding Shiva, Vararoha Shivaruha
She fills him with her Ocean 'til it runs from his eyes
then She looses him on the vibrating world