Friday, prayer time in Bangalore: the call
crackles on the heat,
and my thali’s squeezed out
like little piles
of unwashed toes. Bells
in my tail-bone—seven sharings in
and seven on the train overnight
No sleep in the berth, this time.
are still at it, and I’m hoping
that my Methodist
will shut them down.
I sat in the pews and studied
the neighbor’s daughter, seven Sundayed and ready
Not much to hear in the striking
to mouth. Altar damp,
palm sap and sweat—
all gone to Goan ground.
James Miller is a native of Houston, Texas, though he has spent time in the American Midwest, Europe, China, South America and India. He has published poetry in Riversedge, the Houston Poetry Fest 2016, Sweet Tree Review, Lullwater Review, Cold Mountain Review (forthcoming), Boston Accent (forthcoming), and Plainsongs (forthcoming).