In the arati

waving of the lights

they blow the conch

at the beginning.

Yom Kippur they blow it at the end.

In India, no one knew if

Sai Baba (not the one who conjured Rolexes)

the one whose face

you see in every truck and taxi–

no one knew if he

was Hindu or Muslim,

so when he died

they argued about whether

they should burn or bury him.

The dispute was settled

when the body disappeared

I don’t know if I believe this

but something vanishes

when you fight over the dead body

of someone who loved you.

 

To blow the conch

you purse your lips

to get a seal

and force air through.

Too much and your ears pop,

too little you don’t get the sound.

Like flutes from sticks and reeds

and drums from skins

our first instruments

the conch is calling you to worship

or sealing the prayers you’ve made.

I don’t know if I believe in prayers–

don’t they just reinforce duality,

and isn’t duality the whole problem?

But the sound of the conch calls me anyway.

 

The temple had two entrances

Westerners who’d come

to lose and find themselves

would enter from the inside court

from the opposite door

opening to the unpaved village road

Adivasis would stream in

Next to me a tiny woman

in a torn sari

wearing her mangalsutra

barefoot ageless

rings on her toes

would take her place

me with my traveler’s checks

and portable water filter

and then the conch would sound

and its cry

would call

and you forgot which

door you entered from.