No rite

I am told to wear the imported feijom
from Bengal, when they perform the
ritual to lave me from the sins that I
have committed—as if the white loincloth
was so pure like its whiteness. But I would
not stop sinning, for I’m more attracted
only to the forbidden things in life


I am asked to put the garland on;
and I am warned not to touch it
with my feet or wear it nowhere
but on my neck. It is so beautiful
that I long to pluck out each flower,
rip each petal off and scatter them all
over the place so that the beauty is
spread out throughout

I am assured that the folks would be
glad to see me obey: eat when the
priest asks me to, and starve
when he interdicts me—but I am
too high and only want to puke.