Girl Child

I see a lush garden
chiccos, mangoes, papayas,
guavas thrive
flowers live along side:
roses, lilies, dahlias, and
queen of the night
has just closed her arms
waiting to embrace another dusk.
a small white fluffy Pomeranian
barks around me frantically,
birds in overhanging branches
tweet cheerfully,
welcoming the sun.

silent night has turned
into bright day light
the world seems at peace.
ash and smoke from burning wood
wafts down the street.
people headed out to work
walk past the gate.
others get on with their chores...
carpet seller rolls a cart
calling out his wares.

an angelic form hovers
her head and shoulders
shawl covered.
she calls her daughter,
then hurries to the house opposite
converses intently with
a woman and three girls
who follow her over;
look down, cheeks awash, a river
flows onto my jet black hair.

officious men in khaki uniform,
cudgels, notebooks and
glassy bored looks
examine the once green silk sari
wrapped around me
its fabric now patterned red.
noting I lie in a grain sieve,
as if to let
the stain strain through
into the ground
removing all trace of guilt around
my untimely death.
or to separate chaff from wheat.

This was my soul’s
first conscious view
of the world I came into
but never had a living experience.
I did see, not my own mother,
but another's, who found me
the morning after the
unholy night that I was born,
then flung over her back wall
sari, sieve, branch and tree
not enough to break my fall.

The men in khaki were not
too graceful in their handling
I was grateful I could not feel the pain
they did not fuss and lost no sleep
their concern reserved
for events with more personal gain
and not some girl child for whom
no one cared enough to keep.

Some might think I’m lucky I died
before I had a chance to experience
disgrace, injustice, rape and poverty
plus there were two women
and four girls who cried
one of whom I impressed
enough to write me poetry.

Funny how I don’t feel lucky.

at. all.