In Kerala, there are no boats,

no palms, drupes, canals or streams —

only those who build and tether

their faith in kettuvallam dreams.

My hands are anchors: I smother

turmeric on sacred snake groves.

Come, Nagaraja. Come, Vishnu—

and station in her craggy coves. 

I pray softly, something like this:

Preserve her dreamers, the tired

hulls and keels that keep them afloat.

Architecture is dead: are we

vessels drifting, worn to devote?

I catch perch in my net, sell it

to vendors from Haryana.

Frugally, I still sit and eat —

Om Namo Narayanaya.

-Shreya Pabbaraju