Things with which we will foul the Ganga

All her medical reports, both spectacles, 
Betadine, banknotes she leafed on a copper 
arati tray carrying a small dia, cold bandages 
colored in her bedsores, seven different kinds 
of talcum to ward off skin infections, body odor 
of seagull—a current of twilight, a large
bottle of hand sanitizer, ORS sachets, 
glucose powder, multivitamin syrups 
with festive flavors, sheafs of foil tablet 
packs for her growling bowel, hopscotch 
heart, rotting kidneys, ice liver, eye drops, 
ear drops, tubes, injections, antacid gels,
face wipes, a clutch to hold her thinning hair, 
her husband gone—bindis and bangles
she wore now for god, our tears a silver 
drizzle, a punctuation to her pain 
melting in the lozenge of the honey 
sun falling on the Ganga cradling
her clay body, a green ridge of mold 
oozing through god’s belly into the river 
in which we—along with a constant fleet 
of people who have burned beloveds—
attempt to stay afloat.

Read more from Issue 20.2.