The Aghori Way

Purple and orange cloud together
in the rolling currents of the Ganges River—forever stained
a murky green. Holi, the spring festival, gathers entire villages
to bathe at the banks after a morning of hurling fistfuls of colored powder.
Women wash remnants of hibiscus and coconut oil
from their hair, to be re-applied later, while young men sit
in circles with one knee raised to the chest, still caked
cartoonish hues, laughing over glasses of bhang ki thandai.

But downstream, beyond the final whispers of bright color
and celebration, a man is covered in the pale white of human ash
collected from a smoldering funeral pyre—his temple.
How unlucky the souls, the untouchable caste, unable to pay for burning
rites. They end bloated and beneath the Aghori.
Dark priests living within taboo, eating blood and bone,
feces and flesh. To live for the last time.
Perfection, incarnate.

Not a hint of fear in a single brown eye, men, packed in a small boat,
travel by as I place my offering of bananas in the Aghori's bowl—
a human skull, a former priest, a fellow sadhu. One boy in charge of rowing,
the motor died out or has been dead for some time.