Sari
the summer Lakshmi was lost
The Sun in Calcutta blisters with April rage
as women hang their saris on clotheslines
hand-washing them with crumbling detergent
granulous powder so strong, it wipes out entire palm-lines.
Their future slips through eroding hands,
as red stains are scrubbed to the bone
as dishonour plagues our colonized lands
Lakshmi last night never returned home.
Salt would drip down the back of her neck
as men behind curtains watched her hanging clothes,
pleats of shame she’d utter under humid breath
before placing them gently between the sari’s folds.
Her brown face today is all over the news,
but her saris have dried and need to be plucked soon.
About the Creator
mokradi_
Pari (he/they)
A BIPOC settler in Coast Salish Territories of so-called 'Canada'.
On the road to reconciling the worlds within while reclaiming my journey, one story at a time.
#multiculturalstories
#transgenerationalmemories
Final Call
She flings her arms around my neck and squeezes me like she’s never going to let me go. My head spins as her lips brush against my cheek. She must be able to feel my heart thumping in my chest. I shuffle backwards and ram my hands into my coat pockets, watching her reach down and heave the rucksack across her shoulders.
By Caroline Craven2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
Gorgeously penned my friend!