She burns the ghee lamp, summons Agni,
holds the sea in her cupped hands, looks
for the reflection of Krishna’s smiling face,
floating in her palms: that ricochet of
certainty that her love’s been ingested,
delivered via whispered mantras just barely
audible under the bell’s din, the drums,
the tsunami of voices aching to be saved,
rumbling around the world seven times,
inundating the shores of impermanence.