Ganga-Gramma

Voluptuous lover or
six-limbed bongripper
lit to pop, he's drunk
on the buffalo's
blood once
again. Shiva's matted
hair hangs
like string & he dangles
from it above
the lowly women
who would cut capers
for his blessing,
simple servants of his every
whim who sing him cat's
cradles & borrowed
car keys. Play his theme song
only once before
your morning classes. Offer
him respite in the form
of a placid vase of foe's
blood, she's got four
arms to push you out
the open door
of the pagoda, into
the moist streets; the silver
bullet in the beggar's cup,
kiss it in deference
to Ganga-Gramma: dodged
second chance, one hand
to hold, three to write invoices,
one mouth to scold.