Branches and leaves hunch
over the river, her brittle dirges in the blooms of nila vembu
a mere whisper from the pale throat of the flower;
during the music practice sitting by the canal
unbeknownst the gates open pushing
her into the thicket,
the hyacinths tug the skirt she wears to mirror
chandelier of steepled bamboo weighed in the hook
of her breath,
the skin a sunset of rashes from the hive of bees
in the backyard; a winding path of slush
the family saw her leave her hair coiled with oil
steeped in yellow flowerheads of false daisies
heated on the mud stove and the iron
pan is still warm when they go for her
green from the moss in Kollidam.
My Garden
Uma Gowrishankar
My Garden 