Lent

(Written on Ash Wednesday two years ago.  What began as a lament for a girl begging on the streets of Mumbai and became also a lament for the little girl within me.)

Little girl, who peers through smears of soot

which blur and run in the rain,

this lament is for you.

Life once fluttered around your shoulders

shimmered as it nested in your hair

chirping and humming as the air filled with light.

It lies broken now beneath the earth.

I too, have been marked with ashes

the dust of ancient hosannas

and so we meet death in each other's eyes.

Beneath the shroud of water and cloud

the throaty wail begins.

This lament is for you.

For you behind the windowpane

with prickling skin and ragged palms

as raindrops melt the waxen glass

you who have no name.

Behind this jail of ashen skin

we strain to hear the rooftops wail

in the dusky moments before breath

we wait for the creak of footsteps on the stair

for the rustle and murmur from corners of the room

for the ancient words that light the air

“Talitha Koum! Little girl, get up!

You no longer dwell in the cold, dark places

the death-fumed spaces

You are named in to life!

Exhale the stale air of the tomb,

you are fresh and new! Get up!”

But today the stench of decay

hangs in the folds of cloth

as my palm meets yours across the glass

we are blue-lipped with death

we have not yet learned to breathe

Let the Naming begin.