Kali Sings a Song in My Dream

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"O Mother, even a dullard becomes a poet who meditates
upon thee raimented with space, three-eyed, creatrix of
the three worlds, whose waist is beautiful with a girdle made
of numbers of dead men's arms..."

(from a Karpuradistotra hymn to the Hindu goddess Kali)


“You think there’s something underneath!”
she said, laughing, once again getting
ahead of herself, while she endlessly petted
the spread of myself off the comforting shelf

of believing that things can’t be seen. “As in
macro, so micro: you’ve already got all the data
you need!” – at which point Kali tumbled
a penny into her new microwave, turned it

to high, and observed its wild ride zinging sparks
like a lightning-bolt-festival-sky. “Feel free
to join in while I sing,” she invited, to clatters
of coin in the box causing shocks:

“only song I know that matters!” – to which
she invoked an invisible band (who, though
I could not see them, she told me were
right there, as large as my elbows – at hand) –

Blow, blow, blow your goat!
Spendthrift moonlight: beam!
Verily, verily, verily, verily
Strife’s a golden scheme! –


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