My friend visits India for the first time
For the first time he sees a boy
defecating on the street
He is disappointed, he announces
the beaches were littered with vendors
trying to make a fast buck
cheating foreigners, selling cheap trinkets
This is truth and I am quiet
Indian beauty is like the snow leopard
in high Himalayan passes
She vanishes in the heat of a direct gaze
In the slant of early sun that rests on ancient stone
you can find Her
In the dawn of an urchin’s smile
In the timeless shift of prayer beads in wrinkled hands
In the slide of patterned fabric against the slow sway of hips
She rises and falls from vision
In all that is held sacred—and much is held sacred—
books and trees, water and dust from the feet of a teacher
tales heard in the flute of a grandmother’s voice
smoke from a sandalwood fire
Like the curlicues of henna that snake up a bride’s ankles
She is visible only to a lover’s eyes