Funeral for the living

The blades
of the sickle moon
Shone upon her gray tresses
chopped after four decades
What remained
of the tapering gray
ponytailed wisp
was akin to amputated
leftover stumps


Slow, wheelchaired
when the plastic chair
broke under her weight
and much fidgeting around
She turned to each sound
With her hyperglycaemic gaze
Sisters came to conspire
Gave her sweetened tea
Behind my back
To cheer her bored sore afternoons


She died expected
And un- sudden
After tolerating
The foreign tube
in her balloonous tummy
for six long years

Cruel
As a family
The crowd gathered
For the ritual mourning
It was tragedy
and a joke
and oh! Why didn’t he come?
The food was judged,
And so were the ritual songs
The singers
bend with age
braved the dusk
with a bared torso


Aunt, garlanded
and young
beyond the vagaries
of diabetes
smiled
from the gold gilded frame

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