The Body as a Bell

Risen from alluvial clay, gray—
the silted souls of Vedic rivers
and the blessed chaff of rice.
Slipped in a finer red, sun-baked

turned in hand-dug pits. Modeled
in beeswax thick as fingertips,
shaping the sound out
with charcoal-fired chisels,

refining the resonance
this form will carry
in its open belly. Bells
worn by goats and hung

in temples begin the same—
differing only in an extra rib
to voice the Aum, the life breath
of the Upanishad, universal name of God.

Refined. Westernized. In coarse
casting sand and pure bronze;
weight-pressed, robbed of fire,

smashed free from relief
molds, scored and shaped—
spun bright and smooth.

Outside and in, thin-lipped
to hold a fragile and expanding
tone. A jeweler’s finish

in the throat coalesced
from metallurgic magma
scoped, graphed, and meted

to micrometers. For a single
sound, a mouth that speaks
only one word in its unbroken life.