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Six Poems

Ghee Persad


You know straight away it’s ghee 

and not oil but you can’t eat it 

without gambling for the price 

of home-feelings, you may soon lose 

a toe, then a foot, then your leg. 

Call it faith—like drinking Ganga water? 

Call it an offering, like this sweet, 

that stood at the bronze feet of the ten-

weaponed, tiger-riding Devi. You’ve 

recounted the tale of how she slew 

the demon-headed asura who made 

a compact with the gods so strong 

they trembled in heaven, how 

sugar is also divine and terrible. 


First hot the karahi with ghee and paache de flouah till ‘e brown-brown den add de sugah and slow slow pour de milk zat ‘e na must get lumpy.

Like you mek fe you sista fust picknki ke nine-day, how you tuhn and tuhn ‘am in de pot hard-hard you han’ been pain you fe days, but now you see how ovah-jai you sistah face been deh. You live fe dis kine sweetness.

You eat one lil lil piece an’ know dis a de real t’ing. 

Like when a-you been small an’ you home been bright wid bhajans play steady, how de paper bag wha’ been get de persad became clear from de ghee you been hable fe see you own face.


You pass though 

ever kind watah,

there is always new 

life to celebrate.


Seawall At Morning

Georgetown, Guyana 2019

What starts at night

startles the dawn:

rain water replenishes the trench

lotus stalks and petals stand tall

Seawall signs painted Namasté in acrylic 

Beyond, the sea silts brown as mud as

a frigate soars wings of stone. 

And beyond:

a ship with sails from 1838

I look twice—

an oil rig? Another form

of bondage?


Pandemic Love Poem

One by one 

the yellow jackets

leave their nest, 

a hole covered 

with decaying leaves 

that warm the ground 

and an inert queen

they’ve fed 

all autumn. What sleeps 

inside will one 

day burst into 

a wind of wings. 

What will wake 

a sleeping queen? 

Beneath my waist 

growing larger, 

the sting of nights one 

by one, when 

I am stranger and 

stranger to you. 

We sleep in a converted

porch, wooden siding, 

the wall that insulates 

what’s inside it

which is not you, 

nor is it me. 

The bedclothes stiffen 

with cold. Remember

me? One by 

one peel the yellow 

sheets from our nest. Prick me

with your heat

from sleep. Place 

a cardamom pod

under my tongue.

Come, dissolve 

with me.


Sita ke Jhumar

स्टाब्ब्रुक के बाजार में अंगूठिया गिरी गयल रे।

स्टाब्ब्रुक के बाजार में अंगूठिया गिरी गयल रे।

हमसे खिसियाई बाकी हमार गलतिया नाहीं ।

सास करइला चोखा खावे, ससुर दारू पिये।

ससुराल में परदेसिया रोटी थपथपे अउर दाल चउंके।

आमवा लाये भेजल हमके जीरा लाये भेजल हमके।

बाकरा ठगल हमके संगे जाने ना माँगे है।

गिनिप लाये भेजल हमके जमुन लाये भेजल हमके।

ससुराल में परदेसिया, मासाला पीसे अउर बड़ा तले।

ओरहन पेटाइहे हमार माइ के, बाबा से खिसीयाइहे।

साँइया खिसियाई हमसे गलतिया नाहीं हमार रामा।

स्टाब्ब्रुक के बाजार में अंगूठिया गिरी गयल रे

stabroek ke bajar mein anguthi giri gayal re

stabroek ke bajar mein anguthiya giri gayal re

hamse khisiyayi baki hamar galtiya nahi

saas karaila choka khawe sasur daru piye

sasural mein pardesiya roti thapthape aur daal chaunke

aamwa laye bhejal hamke jira laye bhejal hamke

backra thagal hamke sange jane na mange hai

guinip laye bhejal hamke hamun laye bhejal hamke

sasural mein pardesiya, masala pise aur barah tale

orahan petaihai hamar mai ke baba se khisiyai hai

saiya khisiyaiyi hamse galtiya nahin hamar rama

stabroek ke bajar mein anguthiya giri gayal re

Me ring fall from me finga a Stabroek.

Me husban’ go vex. He mudda’ wan’ eat

karaila chokha, he faddah suck rum steady.

Me na nut’in’ to dem. Me does clap a-roti

an’ chounke de daal. Me husban’ send

me a market fe buy mangro an’ fe get jeera.

Backra been tek me ‘way wid dem come,

me na been wan’ fe come ‘way. Me husban’

send me mus’ buy guinip an’ jamun.

Me na no one fe he mai-baap. Me does pise

de masala me does fry de barah. ‘E go sen’

complaint to me mumma an’ vex wid me faddah.

Me husban’ go vex wid me but nut’in’ me na do.

Me ring fall from me han’ a Stabroek.

My ring slipped from my finger,

in Stabroek market. My love 

will be angry for what was his 

fault. His mother’s eaten karaila 

chokha his father’s sucked rum.

I’m a stranger in their home,

clapping roti, spicing daal.

My love sent me to buy mangoes,

he sent me to buy jeera. Backra 

kidnapped me; I didn’t want

to go. My love sent me to buy 

guinips, to buy jamun. I’m a stranger 

in their home, grinding spices, 

frying barah. He will complain

to my mother, gripe to my father. 

My love, it’s not my fault. My ring 

fell off in Stabroek market.





They came


  and despondent





do not forget

the field


your blood

    I lost 

the yokes of


in chains.


Janam Bhumi


In November of 2019 the Indian courts allowed the Modi administration to construct a Ram temple at the site of the demolished 16th century Babri Masjid built by the Mogul ruler Babur. On August 5, 2020 they broke ground for the new mandir.


Jai Sri Ram, now god of murder. What

is real, Rushi, the forest is now

deforest, home its own undoing?


Trench lotuses hard as dicks release

truth, even the skinks and hawks shrink back

into scarcity. What of shanti—?


In Ayodhya’s sacked Mogul masjid,

vultures scrawl Ram on new temple bricks.

Brother, from this mandir of burning,


each sunrise mantra shoots itself

a poisoned arrow. Each snake prays.

The unlit path sparkles maya. 

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Artwork by Kareen Adam for SAAG. Monoprinted, digitally-animated collage, ink on paper (2020).

Mahadai Das
Babri Masjid

RAJIV MOHABIR is the author of The Cowherd’s Son, The Taxidermist’s Cut, Cutlish, Antiman, and the translator of I Even Regret Night: Holi Songs of Demerara from Awadhi-Bhojpuri. He has received a PEN/Heim Translation Fund Grant Award, the Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the American Academy of Poets, been shortlisted for the Lambda Literary Award in Gay Nonfiction, and been a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, amongst many other awards. He is currently Assistant Professor at the University of Colorado Boulder.


KAREEN ADAM is a Maldivian-Australian visual artist sharing her time between Maldives and Melbourne, Australia. The experience of living between multiple cultures, particularly negotiating between the East and the West informs her practice. Ideas about transitions, cultural identity, and the juncture between 'local' and the 'visitor' emerge in her work. Her current projects explore representations of island tourist destinations and island diaspora. Kareen explores these ideas using various mediums including printmaking, drawing, painting and digital multi-media. Kareen is the creator and maker “Kudaingili”—a range of hand-made, hand-printed products. Kareen has curated exhibitions, and exhibited her art works in Maldives, Brisbane, Melbourne, Hong Kong, and the Asia Pacific region. She has a Diploma in Visual Arts from the Southbank Institute of Technology, Brisbane and a Postgraduate Diploma in Psychology from the Queensland University of Technology.


"In Ayodhya’s sacked Mogul masjid / vultures scrawl Ram on new temple bricks. / Brother, from this mandir of burning"

VOL. 1
31 Oct 2020
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