After the tsunami, we searched

for an open line for days while no one

phoned. It was nearly New Year’s. 

My father perched glasses

upon his face, scooched so near

the t.v. as though he might seize

the woman in the maroon sari, plunge

his arms into the Sony, draw

her through the light

of the screen.

It was an annual ritual—

alms for the sea. 

Everywhere devotees. 

Offerings of sweetmeats, promises

of loyalty.

In our home, the remnants of Christmas,

a tree glowed still with miniature

white.  My mother fed us

leftovers, the smell of mushrooms ascended,

cradled the silence that no one wanted—

Our family —too early

for the boatman—too late

they traded the shore

for a car             fleeing the wave             the size of a God, herself. 

And still, we remain