One paddles behind the other,
whose hands are folded on the chest,
both unafraid, dignified, at the top
of the magnificent Manunggul Jar.
Ever wonder what clay and fine sand, mixed and molded into pots, coffins, cups, bowls, say about our hands, our afterlife, the lies we found, our present fires?
We were one with the earth then, and India arrived in shadows: the golden figurine of a deity, a clay medallion, a godlike image in Brooke’s Point.