Murali

she's sitting on the floor,
cross-legged, bare-footed,
bright yellow gold and jingles,
peeling the vegetables with some heavy iron instrument
her eyes salt up slightly
as she sheds the skin off the onions,
wiping her sweaty cheek with the
chaste edge of a pungent hand --

she's so happy,
all smiles
and cackling
laughter

(her age inflates and deflates -- I'm not sure
if she's forty-something
or sixty-five... no
grey hair, body soft --
and that brattish beautiful grand-daughter,
that cackling glee...)

but when she squats below the steps
to feed the hysterical chooks
her face falls tired, empty
her head drops to her open fist one side of her neck
and I see she's worn,
desperate, pitiful

exactly as I feel, and I've only been here
five weeks