—after Arun Kolatkar
You may not realize this, but
I’m that famous dog, who after reaching
heaven, with Yudhistira on my side, I was thrown
back on earth—to live among the gods
idling the streets of Kathmandu, leering
at every passerby and their bulging
………crotches & coin purses.
I stayed in the valley for as long
as I remember. I drank tea and raksi,
gambled with Newars, who laughed
at my silly jokes and made my tail quiver
in the courtyards of Hanuman Dhoka.
The monkey god taught me
how to pull my tongue out and lick the morning
air, fragrant with cheap incense sticks. Daytime
I was found tottering the busy streets
of New Road and barking at speeding cars
from across the ministry of home affairs.
…………………………………………*
On good days, the man outside
the department fed me Marie biscuits,
and sometimes the old butcher brought chicken feet.
On bad days, unruly boys hurled stones until I fled
with my tail tucked in between my legs, my eyes
searching for residues of safety or sanity.
One night, I stretched my tired neck
to take a good view of the moon and howled,
tearing the fabric of a sky in me. For three months
I made several rounds of one after another
government offices, my nose/my torso/my paws
signed & stamped in green and red ink
until there wasn’t any spot left
for the officers to approve or disapprove
depending on how they felt that day.
Soon the man who fed me Marie biscuits talked
to another man who fed me Parle-G, and they
………handed me a small booklet
that made hopeful noises when scratched
and tasted like blueberry ice cream when I ran
my tongue around its sharp edges.
……………………………………………*
One fateful night, I boarded a metal bird—
more sublime than Ravana’s flying chariot—
and reached Doha. It took me two more days
to finally sniff Starbucks’ secrets. The barista
ran her cool fingers along my warm body
and wished me good luck in the city.
For seven years, I served my master:
………the king of gas stations,
………the queen of dollar stores,
………& the eunuchs of cheap motels—
scrubbing & cleaning/cleaning & scrubbing
my face against the grime
of the North American Dream. The booklet
now hangs from my neck and flutters
in the cool Okanagan breeze, its pages ruffled
and moist with stars’ dew drops.
For seven years, I strolled in City Park,
searching for a pair of comforting hands or kind
eyes of a stranger who felt the heaviness
slowly growing inside my dogged soul. The sea
wind rushing from English Bay burnt my eyes,
and I rubbed, my paws scratching
………memories from faraway places.
………………………………………..*
O Yama! Hear me out: I, who came
………straight from heaven’s
………womb; I, who can recite
………The Bible & The Vedas
………………………………………backwards,
am now ready to lap/lick/lighten
the Canadian shit and sound—
not mere mewling or puking—but my
barbaric yawp to the sidewalks
and garbage cans infested
with rotten rejects of capitalism.
………………………………..*
A Nepali kukur through & through,
I perch my body on my hind legs
spread my big brown ass, and shit—
………half-digested pizza crusts,
………………gluten-free rye bread,
………bits of plastic & parmesan—
and to give the performance a comic overtone
out flows a trickle of warm yellow piss:
libation to the true North American gods,
trickling in a perfect parabolic persistence of a prayer.
O Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesha! O Jesus of Nazareth!
O Parvati, the Adi Shakti! O Virgin Mary, the Mother of God!
………Here’s my well-rounded ass: my unselfish offer
………………for those of you who love a good taste
………………of a mutt’s hairy flesh.
Bite me and free yourself from the sins of seven lives.
Vivek Sharma writes poetry and fiction. His work appears in The Malahat Review, EPOCH, The Fiddlehead, Prairie Fire, and Arc Poetry Magazine. His chapbook of poems, “Between Two Valleys, A Lake,” will be out from Anstruther Press in Fall 2025. Find them on X @SharmaviVivek.
