Rushi Vyas | Poetry

BEADS

We find a note in the house from St. V’s, a summons
to a meeting to discuss suspension
of the two letters following your name,

the note, dated two days before today, the day
I find your emptied shell strung up
by a thick, silver computer cable.

………………………………………………..Your employees tell us
about the clack of rudraksha beads you slapped,
hand in pocket. You took a patient’s phone, checked

for spyware. You left probes in bodies,
exited exam rooms to mutter in your office, beads clacking
against your brain’s rattle.

………………………………………I lift my palm
superstitious to my chest to the beads that hang
around my neck. Dad, I say, and will to see you standing

where your feet imprints remain in the living
room, palms together in front of Ganesh, Shiva, Mataji,
Dadaji, Krishna, and Saraswati, standing in the posture

of prayer everyday, three times a day, never orbed
by closed eye reverie like mother listening
to bhajans. I finger the beads around my carotid, let

the rough-edged tree seeds massage
fingertips. They say, sorry. My mantra replies,
it’s not your fault, it’s not your fault, it’s not—

Rushi Vyas was named a finalist for the 2018 National Poetry Series and runner-up for the 2018 Indiana Review Poetry Prize. He served as Managing Editor of TIMBER Journal and Subito Press at the University of Colorado, where he earned his MFA in Poetry. His poetry is forthcoming from or published in Tin House, Adroit Journal, The Thought Erotic, the Offing, and elsewhere. He lives in Brooklyn.

2018-11-26T18:03:03+00:00