Abecedarian for Aubade for Green

At the vegetable market this morning
before anything else, I pick moringa
clear as sugar maple leaf green

do I know what I am going to prepare?
earth turning into green vegetation
fades into a mammoth of recipe books

given by my mother and grandmother
holding the green blessing
iconography flashing across my mind

juxtaposing sambar, Sindhi kadhi,
knit into a prayer of eating together
look, your hand has brought another

map, the vegetable margins your arm
not long ago, when my mother
ordered moringa, the shopkeeper

picked eight bunches of flute-green
quickening his steps to wrap the vegetable
remnant rainwater dampening the street

scents still familiar in memory
today is a feast for which we are preparing
unmooring the harvest we hold

vacating the trolley of the green plenitude
we walk imagining the green fields
xenolith of movement that brings

year after year, the holy in our mouths and
zephyranthes blooming after thunderstorms.


When you return to a village where you grew up,

you belong to every village; the people are your own,

the citronella sky— these sunsets

have passed between us like an exchange

of fragmenting cirrocumulus

becoming the sky.


for my father

Plinth and Oratorio

When I was a child, I noticed the moon followed us everywhere we went into the city,

                                                        In Plymouth,                     peel an orange like the city,

and there is no explanation for the magic of things, the holy spectacle we witness into

like envelopes of breeze.              story unfolding                                each voice, now known?

Everywhere snow, the way it falls on the ground, covering everything— remembrance

the sky.                                       a sea is                       No water unfamiliar. History                  

the landscape. I hold a bowl of fruit and you make a smoothie out of it, the different

When I was a child,                   the moon followed      everywhere                  into the city,

berries still unified in a solid color. Often, we cannot tell them apart. This coagulation.

Everywhere snow,                                                                             everything— remembrance

of where we walked along the side. In Plymouth, I wanted to peel an orange like the city,

the landscape.             a bowl of fruit                                                                     the different

the sky. What miles when a sea is proximate? No water unfamiliar. History arriving

                                                     the magic of things, the holy spectacle                               

like envelopes of breeze. What story unfolding in each house, each voice, now known?

berries still unified                                                                                                This coagulation.

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