Sunday, February 04, 2007


She walks out each morning,
barefoot, each fist full of a
different colored chalk.
She reaches the property line,
mixture of brick and dung and
Ganges rainwater.
She pours the chalk, an intricate
knot, interweaving the past and the present
so thoroughly they may never come undone.
When she's done she admires her handiwork
claps her hands so sharply
magpies take flight

through the monsoon heat,
children, cripples, dogs, chickens, oxen
trample the chalk back
into tea-colored earth.
next morning she will rise
with the mango sun
to spread the chalk again