Crossing into Tamil Nadu is based on a journey Mara Bergman made with her daughter in India, with the loose narrative taking a dramatic turn in the title poem

Click here to buy from Templar Poetry
Click here to buy from Amazon

         FLYING TO INDIA

                                  for Caroline Price
                              
It was Caroline who said that flying doesn’t scare her anymore 
             now that her life was full and she no longer felt greedy, that flying     

was joyful, a way to leave your life for a while and aim                                                            
             for something new, a chance to be spontaneous and incredibly carefree

so that by the time she turned fifty she actually loved it – dared 
             to look forward to it – and instead of the pills and the vodka

could sit back among the endless blue and immerse herself 
             in that lighthearted feeling you get when nothing much matters 

or matters so much there’s nothing left to worry about, or lose. 
             As we clear the land, the end of the wing is tipped with light 
          
so far above thick drifts of cloud, a child’s vision of heaven, 
             neither here nor there, past or future, but this 

continual present that stretches on and on, following the light 
             as we enter evening, now and earlier all in one, and like an echo 

our voices chiming, This might not be a bad way to go.  

        CROSSING INTO TAMIL NADU

 If only I hadn’t seen deer by the lake 
           and our guide hadn’t stopped, and we hadn’t started walking 
to the edge. If we hadn’t driven extra miles 
           to glimpse crocodiles, lumpy in their prehistoric sunning, 
mouths open and tongueless; if the day hadn’t dragged on and on 
           winding through plantations of tea, sandalwood, cardamom, 
our mouths dry as dirt roads; if we hadn’t stopped for drinks 
           of coconut. If only a vanload of children 
were not feeding monkeys, or one monkey hadn’t lingered 
           to grab all it could, or if you weren’t so intrigued, 
especially by the babies clinging to their mothers, 
           pointy eared, hungry eyed; if you had resisted
taking that photo, wanting so badly to capture that baby, 
           not knowing adults can be jealous, vicious – 
that they will attack. That a monkey bite can leave a hole 
           the size of a bullet’s. The hospital was far; elephants 
cause roadblocks. That to stitch an animal wound 
            is against the law in India.  

       DUST

 As we drove through the streets of Kochi my last day, 
a speck of soot, a drift of smoke, a mote of dust

flew off the road, caught in my throat. 
I tried to clear it as we spoke and yet it stuck. 

I coughed, and then again, to dislodge something 
insignificant. I took a swig of water but it dared

to hold on stronger. I had a meal down by the beach – 
a plate of rice, a hill of prawns and one tall glass 

of fresh squeezed lemonade. I watched the sun go down 
behind the Chinese fishing nets; the air grew cool, 

the night was calm and nothing moved.   
I flew eight thousand miles, resumed my life;

returned to work, slept in my bed. 
Still it burns with every word. It’s never left.