During my time in Banaras I was inspired poetically more than any other city in the program and I’d like to share a few poems that encapsulate my sentiments in the holy city.
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To live in and die by the mother Ganga.
We occupy a city of mosquitoes.
Your blood is my blood.
Sweet as the sweetest lassi.
I’ll keep on sucking
until I’m crushed
like that of an American
tourist smashing her palms together.
Bearing the intact carcass
of another unsung
denizen.
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If you identified as
a fruit, which one
would you be?
The Buddha was an
avocado.
But we aren’t all
enlightened enough
to be summer fruits.
Most of us are berries I think.
Like a pineapple.
That’s right, pineapples
are berries, and if you
don’t believe me, then
you’re probably a pineapple.
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A deal is a deal.
But it couldn’t really
be that simple.
We were both trying
to avoid the man
with the long stick,
wondering
who would get the short
end of it.