She shudders, a jangle of gold,
before kicking into village
dust to raise Kali and Shiva
in one long whirl of color.
Her sari is my mother’s, and my father
provides the music: sixteen beats
to the moment. From what garden
the kohl that wards evil eye?
She knows. Her palms bloom red
this wedding night. Beneath her feet,
we sing to the henna tree: she,
a blessing and palanquin to the moon.