Monday, July 8, 2013


She fills carcasses of coal
in a casket of copper,
and picks the bulky bully
with ease, scratches the surface
of red, pink and black
to line out lapels
wringing a wrinkle
from a green sari she cannot wear.

She is a bony elfin
to carry those cargo of clothes
clutched in her ailing arms
sometimes, cradling her crop
she never frets or fumes
nor does she lament
for this hand
feeds her misfortune
on a tottery table.

I’ve seen her cling
to the old shawl
mom gave her last winter,
in a sourish soft she loved
perched atop the
crippling three legged chair,
weeding on the tea
those neighbours made
in a careless act of charity
wallowing on the crumbs of celebration
of sharing two measly rotis
ushered by a gullible
greenness of chilli
with her husband of forty years.

First published in Copperfield review here

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