In the garden, I felt like Adam—
seedy ruined

first.

Maybe I should have felt like Eve—
balmy purple

second.

Or like River Ganga—
murky populed

I wish I felt like River Ganga—

I wish I felt my mother’s hand press
into my back, push my ribs into place
and stitch it all to stay with thread
blessed in the waters of River Ganga.

Now in the arboretum I pray to God. I pray that
my mother will drink water from River Ganga
with her last breath and her soul will go to heaven.