Mangaatha or the Case of the Former Circus Artiste Now Distracted
Around four in the afternoon,
a jack of hearts fell into my
palm and I asked him if
he’d put me down but he said
no, we are not done with you yet,
but don’t worry, only five of us
are left. I held the trapeze bars
very hard, and perhaps my nails
dug into his breath fogging at my ear
because he looked up at me and rasped,
how long have you been swinging across
and I said, ever since my costumes have been
made from specially imported Turkish silk.
He whistled to the others when I landed
with my stomach taut against the brick
wall with betel juice stains and they came
and watched and tossed their cards high,
until the clubs and the hearts were smearing
against the corner of my eye and until
the young policeman came running from
across the narrow street, his mouth blackening
as he saw my pooling silk.
“If a planet is weak, they fix it,” or, Dear Matchmaker
You came home with a leather purse tucked
under your arm, your face a shadowing
slate, forehead creased with why not this one
or this one has three oxen, your throat unreeling
bubbles as you gulped hot coffee, your index
finger forever on your nose, stroking possibility,
singing of a prospect. I often stared at you
from within the dank pantry, my fingers
tracing your frame upon the wall, your drooping
nose, your smooth lips, your cracked heels, black
and caked with dirt. You spoke with a drawling
aah, your eyes charting stars, planets and unions,
your expression wound taut around the edges
of two horoscopes placed side-by-side, the fogging
kerosene lamp flickering nearby. Even now, as my
daughter begins to wear anklets, her face chalked
with talcum powder, I rummage the pantry
for your hands, your serrated voice, those
words that painted my stars against the shadows
on the blue walls: He is the right one.
Indian Oregon
I.
Summer rain, suburban, steady—
grey tar-sprung spray stains vision.
The garage doors open before I spot them.
Later, I run
knuckles taut,
four miles along the Willamette.
Thrashing, the log caught
in the nook of a split trunk
beats the water along a curve.
II.
The house with the two black horses,
front-facing, jumping roadwards,
looms ahead—
oblique magnificence.
At the French bakery, I see
the twisting of almond croissants
delicate, sticky, like a web
of throaty café voices swirling.
My wallet lies forgotten in the car
under the damp seat.
III.
In the morning
as the rain beats against the window,
I wake up to omelets
Indian style—
onions, capsicums, and cumin powdered,
frying matter-of-factly
to the steady stream of scratchy Sanskrit
chants on old, beige colored cassettes.
The lisping little boy strapped in the high chair
does not know that I
am not American. He calls
my aunt mah-mmy.
RANJANI MURALI graduated with an MFA in poetry from George Mason University, where she was a reader for So to Speak. Her poetry, translations and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in in elimae, Indefinite Space, Kartika Review, Phoebe and Cricket Online Review. She was recently awarded a fellowship for a residency at the Vermont Studio Center.
Around four in the afternoon,
a jack of hearts fell into my
palm and I asked him if
he’d put me down but he said
no, we are not done with you yet,
but don’t worry, only five of us
are left. I held the trapeze bars
very hard, and perhaps my nails
dug into his breath fogging at my ear
because he looked up at me and rasped,
how long have you been swinging across
and I said, ever since my costumes have been
made from specially imported Turkish silk.
He whistled to the others when I landed
with my stomach taut against the brick
wall with betel juice stains and they came
and watched and tossed their cards high,
until the clubs and the hearts were smearing
against the corner of my eye and until
the young policeman came running from
across the narrow street, his mouth blackening
as he saw my pooling silk.
“If a planet is weak, they fix it,” or, Dear Matchmaker
You came home with a leather purse tucked
under your arm, your face a shadowing
slate, forehead creased with why not this one
or this one has three oxen, your throat unreeling
bubbles as you gulped hot coffee, your index
finger forever on your nose, stroking possibility,
singing of a prospect. I often stared at you
from within the dank pantry, my fingers
tracing your frame upon the wall, your drooping
nose, your smooth lips, your cracked heels, black
and caked with dirt. You spoke with a drawling
aah, your eyes charting stars, planets and unions,
your expression wound taut around the edges
of two horoscopes placed side-by-side, the fogging
kerosene lamp flickering nearby. Even now, as my
daughter begins to wear anklets, her face chalked
with talcum powder, I rummage the pantry
for your hands, your serrated voice, those
words that painted my stars against the shadows
on the blue walls: He is the right one.
Indian Oregon
I.
Summer rain, suburban, steady—
grey tar-sprung spray stains vision.
The garage doors open before I spot them.
Later, I run
knuckles taut,
four miles along the Willamette.
Thrashing, the log caught
in the nook of a split trunk
beats the water along a curve.
II.
The house with the two black horses,
front-facing, jumping roadwards,
looms ahead—
oblique magnificence.
At the French bakery, I see
the twisting of almond croissants
delicate, sticky, like a web
of throaty café voices swirling.
My wallet lies forgotten in the car
under the damp seat.
III.
In the morning
as the rain beats against the window,
I wake up to omelets
Indian style—
onions, capsicums, and cumin powdered,
frying matter-of-factly
to the steady stream of scratchy Sanskrit
chants on old, beige colored cassettes.
The lisping little boy strapped in the high chair
does not know that I
am not American. He calls
my aunt mah-mmy.
RANJANI MURALI graduated with an MFA in poetry from George Mason University, where she was a reader for So to Speak. Her poetry, translations and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in in elimae, Indefinite Space, Kartika Review, Phoebe and Cricket Online Review. She was recently awarded a fellowship for a residency at the Vermont Studio Center.
