Firewalking in India

This is no Baptist picnic,
No Episcopalian tea party.
A black faced god sits
In a cloud of flowers.
Drums threaten the heart.
Hawkers sell balloons
And dates
And puffed rice.
People push the wooden railings
Around the fire.
Children laugh or cry.
Old women do both.
Holy drunkards,
All in yellow,
Press towards the flames.
The god teases
With his silence.
The drums howl
Like ancestral beasts.
 
Then they begin.
Men and women,
Old and young,
Carrying flowers and faith,
Some carrying babies,
Dancing and singing,
They walk to the god
Across the coals.
Saying with their feet
What they cannot
With their tongues:
That the divine is
A great fire,
The soul a bewildered
Flutter.
That somewhere in between
Is a place
Where flesh does not burn.