Dalit

I was very pleased to have this poem  published in Not Very Quiet 2, 2018.

A woman is asleep upon the path.

So close. The concrete holds her like a bier:

Hair combed neatly, faded sari rests

over tired bones and leathered skin.

Scraps of chatter. Shadows glide and cast

fleeting nonchalance across this drear

concrete patch, immaculately swept

where nearby rupees flick and vendors grin.

Thousands, millions hurry through each vast

metropolis where lost ones disappear

into subways, when the damp has pressed

its hand on swags and human hopes are thin,

One day she'll join the others noiselessly.

She could be anyone.

Perhaps she's me.

Hazel Hall