For Mike Allen
In conjunction with this piece by jeweler Meenoo Mishra of Minou Bazaar: https://www.etsy.com/listing/185346229/peacock-art-pendant-india-necklace
First feather
Girl for sale
Garbed in blues and greens
Framed in a circle of filigree
Dangling from a fine gold chain
Your knife hooked as a bird’s beak,
My love,
You carved out my heart
And drew it back in
With pen and pigment
And placed it under glass
For all to see
Second feather
In the strolling park where you painted
Just beneath the pomegranates
I strummed my sarangi
Each string a strand of long black hair
Each note a drop of blood
It hurts, it hurts
To be alone
A dark sky without a moon
But no one heard my song
Amidst the birdcalls,
My love—
Except for you
Third feather
A god you were
With a single feather in your crown
Your devotee
Chanting your hallowed name
In hushed tones
Waving my heart on a silver tray
Ringed with marigolds and sindoor-red roses
Before your statue on the shrine:
"O Lord, I beg you,
Accept this humblest of offerings!"
In the end, you did
And now you must eat from my hand
For always
Fourth feather
All the peacocks preened around you:
"Meh-aao, meh-aao!"
I laughed, for they might call down the rain
Yet what thunderhead
No matter how dark
How bitter and dismal
Could truly hide
The sun’s resplendent face?
Fifth feather
"Art is forever," you whispered
Lifting your brush
Brushing my hand
"Like love.
A moment made eternity."
"Then paint me," I pleaded
"I will dance for you, sing for you.
Only paint me bright and bold."
You studied me, then flashed
A smile like salty secrets
An appraiser’s smile:
How much, the value of this singular jewel?
My smile was all intrigue:
More than all the diamonds
More than all the pomegranates
More than all the peacocks in the world.
"Yes," you said, and began
Sixth feather
We were to wed
My heart, your hand
When the parched river drank you down
Leaving me only your pendant
With my portrait
I could not live
Forgive me, my love
A peacock was all I could manage
Seventh feather
The quill so sharp against my skin
Drawing blood as you drew my cheekbones
The kajal over my eyes
The sorrow below my breast
Your lost breath, my spilled tears:
The spell is cast
Eighth feather
You had me eating out of your hand,
My love,
Just as if I were the bird and you—
You the master, always
Yet I was the one with the magic
And I learned just how suddenly
Lovebirds forget to fly
When forced to part
Ninth feather
Everything must eat
It is a law of our world
Everything must eat:
You, the peacocks, I
Even art demands to be fed
An artist must sacrifice
For his muse
Not only tears and time
But souls and selves
Oh, my love,
You knew that going in
As did I
Sometimes the muse, too,
Must sacrifice herself for the artist
Tenth feather
You drew me so well, my love,
That I woke from death in my own likeness
Then, when my charm took effect
I drew you
My love, my love, did you really think
That whatever form you wore
In your next life—
Bird, blossom, or beast—
I would not find you again?
Eleventh feather
There is no eleventh feather
Enchantments, too, must be nourished
Twelfth feather
Twelve feathers minus one make a fan
Like the one I waved in your direction
On the days made of fire and dust
A peacock’s all-seeing eyes
They watch me now
As you, my love,
Won back from the thirsty river
And soundly preserved behind the glass
Of the pendant you once gave me,
Forever bend forward to peck seeds
From the bowl of my curved palm
Under my tenderest of smiles