Monsoon Season
The faucet mourned you,
so I collected the tears
in a Kissan pineapple jam bottle,
the second one I bring as I rickshaw
past rows of shoddy bangle stands
and fluorescent-lit sweet shops –
Under stray arrays of chilly rain,
an army of goosebumps
assemble on my exposed arm –
I watch braided women in
chiffon, mango-printed dupattas,
the same you used to build table tents –
Emaciated peddlers shuffle knockoff
silk saris into frayed burlap sacks,
the same you used to toss wrinkled guavas –
From the third branch of your favorite tree
hangs a bent garland of ghost white
jasmine blocking my view of you,
while distant relatives stare like stalking tigers,
eyes reflecting the flames of the pyre and
engulfing my dry, unveiled face –
Potbellied uncles dig a swimming pool with spades
for your unmounted headstone where I’ll
spill all of these Ruchi lime pickle jars.