A Shrine for Lonely Women

The inside      of my grandmother’s small wooden almirah is

pitch black like       the pupils of her children’s eyes

I recognize everything      except some orange and red pills

newspaper bills      and a book written entirely in dead flowers

and tears      My grandmother wrote poetry

In her memory      I set my clothes on fire

The smoke is so pure       it stinks of despair

I bow and murmur       "desire" seven times

I was taught to      worship the gods that sit  

 in the prayer room       with its rotting walls.

Some gods were made of marble     Others of the Earth

I liked the Earth Gods better     They never spoke much

At the hour of prayer        my  grandmother used to cover her head

With the ends of her saree        then rock back and forth

Like a pendulum swerving        in an ocean of oil

The smoke is  so pure        it has cleaned  everything up so well

except me       everything glistens like a happy song

I sit still and        listen

Meanwhile My soot        and the dark wood

Caress each other       Make love And become one

It’s a friendly act     kind but very tiring

 I froth at the mouth      after we’re done