my grandmother in a pink sari
dressed to perfection, to dazzle
she hasn’t put on any make up
yet there is a glow about her face
her feet are more moist than usual
the skin over her knuckles, more wrinkly
she doesn’t say much, just lies there
sleeping with her eyes open
there are no ornaments on her body
only the hands of those who loved her
and the pity of those who think
she died before her time.
A heathen poet 