Roshan

Three quarters of the way into my name,

there’s Roshan, roshni, light; that seems to me right,

a silver of bangles on a wrist, round mirror chips

embroidered into the hem of my clothes,

my white skin seen tiny times over,

sequins sewn into my childhood.

This is my light; a cloth weighted

with five bright beads over an English lamp.

And me now, turning on these lights in the dusk,

move still with a shake of bells at my feet,

not quite heard, the light not quite seen.