Extended Family
K. Ramanujan
Yet like grandfather
I bathe before the village crow
the dry chlorine water
my only Ganges
the naked Chicago bulb
a cousin of the Vedic sun
slap soap on my back
like father
and think
in proverbs
like me
I wipe myself dry
with an unwashed
Sears turkish towel
like mother
I hear faint morning song
(though here it sounds
Japanese)
and three clear strings
nextdoor
through kitchen
clatter
like my little daughter
I play shy
hand over crotch
my body not yet full
of thoughts novels
and children
I hold my peepee
like my little son
play garden hose
in and out
the bathtub
like my grandson
I look up
unborn
at myself
like my great
great-grandson
I am not yet
may never be
my future
dependent
on several
people
yet
to come
