By Sarah Garber

We moved into our new house.
A puja room with
A shabby shrine and dusty Krishna playing his flute
Oversaw the common area.
I would have thrown him out, but he was not mine to toss.
We rented.

I was alone,
Sitting after breakfast amidst a
Clutter of orange peels and chai cups.
In the corner Krishna played his flute, the
Eerie melody of ages in my ear.
I did not relish that song, so I resolved
To stow away the musician.
Putting down my mug,
I marched into the dusky puja room
And throttled the frozen Krishna.
So light!
He was only painted plaster, brown and patchy.
As I lifted him up by his head, the body
Fell away to the concrete floor.
Shattered, fragments
Only plaster.

My first Idol.