Arunachala, Rishikesh and Vrindaban are in my body.
The source of the Ganges is a lump in my throat,
where a stream of laughter breaks into tears.
My eyes are sacred lakes high in the Andes.
There's a mesa in New Mexico where earth
gives birth to tribes: it is my navel.
From the crown of my head to the tip of my spine
stretches the desert where Jesus and Elijah
wander, refusing food and water.
But when they get thirsty, I show them a fountain
of prophecy that gushes from my ribcage.
Now I will guide you to a secret place:
the cave of my heart where the archangel whispers,
"Iqra! Recite these poems."