grandmother
she wilts everyday in the yellow mansion
her wrinkles barren since thirty-three rainy months
her teeth are separated by tobacco stains
they are oblong holes of germs.
her room is a two-dimensional hospital
inside her paper bags
she keeps expired tablets and oxygen.
her bed is just like her
preoccupied with December’s odor.
her clothes are torn and burnt
her legs thinner than her sparrows’ pegs
(all day she cooks without salt and sugar)
in the evening she talks with the fading sun
at night she remembers some chores undone
she has not much money to buy glasses
but lately, she has compromised with her vision
to decide what she could get with her pension.
she has many tin-bottles of unfinished Marie biscuit wrappers and tea packets
they are like her children, they are like her
forgotten and displaced
from one shelf to another.
©2023 Kaustabh Kashyap.
