Vindhya Vespers Because I never call the living, only the dead respond. My years escape me. But he, he never goes away. Ouija fingers trace my hands as wet eyes cry for him, his murder-- shot while in the line of triad fire. The modern India he said I'd hate-- death and poverty and still practiced sati, women proving themselves worthy. He never asked me to light a match to a funeral pyre. Smoke billows, hovers like dark set clouds before the monsoon storm. My silk sari starched, a bleached bone. Flame red toes flicker, ashes gray the granite of our gravestone.
Kathleen A. Kelly
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