The Sculpting
Hari Alluri
౧| Mahal
Clay, wet against blade. Its shape—of seeming. Blade my will-be lover seeks the features of his guru with, blade of this thumb he licks to bulbous them and smooth.
౨| Poet
If I were the guru
Ekalavya’s hands gave form,
I would kiss my own statue,
find inside my lips
Ekalavya’s lips.
౩| Jackal
Swath first, then detail. Thumb across the chest, drifting
up the folds to hedge the robes. This closeness,
then this one. The visible ligaments, the palm detail
outfacing. The eyes—do they observe like his mother’s
or his father’s? Like the goddess of the hunt, or
of what’s lost? They hold a thing my eyes take in
like the guru’s never can. And hold it steady.
Studied like worship. Like of a hunted beast.
When I Whisper Your Hand, Yes, Release Me (Bowstring Dakshina)
Hari Alluri
The jungle’s drum has been here since.
Always, even without rain, drum
a beat of water against root. My root
I mean. And, from the inside. The spring
in prey’s hind legs. I am, at sudden hush,
what leaping comes from. Trust in this. Easy,
like jackal trusts in death. You fail to ask
who twined my incarnation, how her hands
arrive into this work. Now raise my bow. Draw me back,
bear the concentrated—muscle shorn from bone,
the tautness worked into my weave. An echo.
Hold. An echo that retrieves itself like grief
behind you. Deal with that. Now lighten
grip. Now aim. The feathers you bring beside
my torso, the story eagles pledge their meal
for thanks. Just as waterfowl impales themself with eagle,
target pulls arrow from me to core. Yes,
like talons, dragged into a body. I want my twang
the single note a spirit hears when leaving—
—after Yusef Komunyakaa
Old Fears, New Names
Hari Alluri
|Arjuna
As our hunting dog approaches, its alpha
jaws a vase sprouting plumage-of-seven-arrows,
I picture my sacred bow. Gripped
by Ekalavya’s hands. The palace, all
Hastinapur—like Lanka
in the wake of Hanuman’s sweepy tail—
on fire. Groundwater saving itself to feed
what jungle waits below.
—for Rajiv Mohabir
about the writer
Hari Alluri is the author of The Flayed City (Kaya, 2017), Carving Ashes (CiCAC/Thompson Rivers, 2013), and the chapbook The Promise of Rust (Mouthfeel, 2016). A co-founding editor at Locked Horn Press with fellowships from Las Dos Brujas and VONA/Voices, his current projects are supported by grants from the BC Arts Council and the Canada Council for the Arts. Hari's recent work appears in Massachusetts Review, POETRY, and Wildness.