Kaali tolls a bell in the small
temple in Dida’s room, recalls
two echoes from the Bhagavad-gita:
kamo ‘smikalo ’smi
I am loveI am death
A layer of light wreathes her face.
She vows: Death, when you visit
home we will prepare you chai
with cinnamon, sugar, ginger,
peppercorns, milk. Offer you warm
robes if you arrive in winter—a white
kaftan weaved with wind for summer.
Here is a hook to hang your noose
and mace. A bruise-coloured toothbrush.
Some water. We are well aware you may
drink blood, or fire, and if you do we will
look the other way and wait. Is there
anything else you wish to acquire?
We have binoculars for you
to see how the moon
looks to us from our flesh
world. Our main concern is
your presence. The longer you
are among us the longer Dida
remains. She likes this house
and we are certain you will
come to consider it a second
home yourself. You are more
than welcome to bring
the silver float of lost bodies
for a break before they are
carried in your arms into
hell. We have always
been a ghosthouse, each body
cleaving from air the other’s
smell. Of what use being Death
in a graveyard? Rest, please rest,
Kaali bows to seal her plea.
Enamored, Death raises a glass
of forgiveness. So happy we are
that none of us notice the blood
in the cup belongs to Dida.

[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Brooks and Suzanne Moses during our annual Kickstarter.]