Indira Gandhi

eye slicer and

hair oil

met coconut breath on a back

street of Bombay

under the baleful stare of Indira Gandhi,

before she went completely mad.

of course, she disliked everyone

who talked without an accent

such as hers,

even when her tongue was swollen

by the sensibilities of British royalty.

the taxi driver said her thoughts

were being read by a distant fortuneteller

who sat in an elevated clock tower,

which looked over the enormous sweep of history.

and his fare nose helped steer him thru

the busy streets after midnight,

avoiding brass monkeys and the many cripples

who begged while sitting in piles of dirt.

the ever-alert angels, hawking cheap merchandise,

narrated stories

about snakes luring the innocent away from lush lands,

and snake charmers who know how to dance

without missing a step

jumping between the borders of two countries.

mounting an idle bicycle, a loner,

momentarily balanced in India,

riding a childhood's dream,

began pedaling innocently toward a

woman holding a knife that

drips with blood.