We raced between flames, the piercing light
melted our bones into the earth, glued
by burned muscle and melted tendons. We could
see the prayer wheels darkening and women knit
while they walk on mountain paths. But our hands
were empty of prayer beads, our prayers were now
hot, red, yellow – screaming as wind. The words
follow soldier machines that stamped on dresses
and school books to forbid the very language
we used to tell stories, to pass on ways to cook,
to herd sheep, and to find steep trails to shepherd
our yak and goat. Our knees no longer felt temple
floors, our arms could not gather barley from fields.
Our lips had been sealed with hot wax. But still
we could leave in flames – even as they throw bitter
water. Wind comes from east and west
until dark comes.
© Lavinia Kumar
China TV blames Dalai Lama for Tibet immolations
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Lavinia Kumar lives in New Jersey. Her poetry has appeared in several publications, in the US and UK. She writes a blog for her brother’s seniorsmagazine.org, based in Portsmouth, NH.
