In Varanasi

On the train back from the oldest city

in India, a man is reading over our shoulders,

mouthing the words like a hungry ghost

chewing on the air. We don’t mind him

being close, not after all these months

of huddling around chai, drinking even the grit

at the bottom of the clay cup, throwing it

out the train window to be consumed

back into the land, as everything here is.

You are dressed in all white, mistaken

for Gandhi all weekend though you look

nothing like him; a man touched your knees

and bowed. I’ve heard this whole city

is a prostration, leaning into the Ganges,

holiest creation water and swallowing-

grounds for all the burning dead.

When we watched the bathers at the ghats,

you wondered how anyone gets clean

washing in all those ashes.

We couldn’t bear to touch the water,

but couldn’t look away as the women

submerged everything they owned

beneath that burying current.