Paper Boats

Today I bartered with a man
in the bazaars of Rishikesh, India
for a garnet ring.

His shop sat behind foggy glass and tarnished silver; 
dogs appreciatively licked the beads of the skirt I wore, 
the skirt that tripped me as I stepped over the threshold
he swept with obsessive strokes
of a shedding broom.

Lightheaded from the heat piercing my temples and
scared of the men that shadowed me on either side of the Ganga
I wanted to scream 
that it’s not just the dust in the arches of our feet that he must guard against, but also the particles that mix with the sweat on our skin 
and cling to the lengths of our eyelashes 
and line the half moons of our nails--
But I assumed he didn’t speak English. 

I wanted his smile to be 
like a poem:
Stark white teeth against chocolate colored skin but
I also assumed the only paleness of him would be the white triangles of his eyes,
as he eyed my tattoo 
as I eyed the religion painted gold between his brows. 

I imagined splinters in his fingertips, like the ones scarring the knees of the beggars I could look at, quickly, but not see. 
And maybe if the cleaner he used on my ring
could pour from the cracks in the sky 
in the wake of lightning,
our eyes would water less from the haze 
that muffles the thunder. 

How to say
I am tired,
I am far from home,
In Hindi. 

But the paper he drew from his pocket, I could read.
And even if I couldn’t, he would tell me,
because he spoke English.
The sheet he showed me will never be folded
into the paper boats I watch barefoot children sail beneath the suspended bridges;
The script was cursive 
and said that the dog who pushed his wet nose against my toes
has a home waiting for him in Canada,
and the one that liked to chew the bells of my sandals
is eagerly awaited for in France. 

If only all the strays in the streets of Rishikesh
might find their way behind the foggy glass and tarnished silver
to the man 
with the shedding broom.
And I think that if I tried to clean this nation with silver polish,
the dust might melt but the land would burn.

Today I bartered with a man
in the bazaars of Rishikesh, India
for a lesson in poetry 
that is not 
the shape of the smile,
that teaches failure is not
the dust of the streets,
and now I hear verse in the garnet of my ring.