Ganesh Chaturthi, poem by Cheryl Snell

A believer cradling a small
earthen version of the god
mutters last-minute prayers,
supplications hurried to shore
by a trick of the wind.

"Ganapati, let the train come
that I may keep my job. Let my son
pass exams, my daughters marry
into good families."

Water slaps sand, the air clacks
with finger cymbals. The pilgrim
wades out waist-deep, the murti
in his elbow’s crook. He releases it
like a bad debt, a broken promise.

A pyune rushes into the train station
from a street strewn with obstacles.
He tugs the hands of a stopped clock
into a likely hour while outside, a flotilla of figurines streams by, streaked features
half- erased, trunks of clay dissolving.