by Parag Mallik
She will envelope her palms, dense
prayers trapped within, before her
divine imagery of God, begging to
fill the cups built of her fingers with
time up to the brim so she can serve
her little home and her labour from 9
to 5, toiling to read through the pages
of his untidy cursive and yet have
solitary air to breathe.
She folds the fabric of her dress into
deep creases and grooves, begging
for vivacity – enough to bring home
the few notes that fly away into her
bills and to the stores, fetching
muffins of joy, he desires, and to
segment her thoughts into little chunks
of comfort for her tiny tot.
She bows really low, curving the back
of her neck, begging for a few drops
of faith that may fuel her single arms
to wipe away all the tears, to embrace
her little universe in a loving hug, and
to knit promises she can wrap around
her home because even when alone,
doubled is
her joy,
her faith,
her love.
