Vitriol.

Born with an acid tongue, you launched verbal attacks that ended careers.
Like burn victims in India, you lashed out to defend perceived threats against your honour. 
Sonic boom—the sound of each blow landing like atomic bombs in Hiroshima. 
Nagasaki even knew you created more casualties than Iwo Jima. 
Instead of saliva, you spit genocide, each word its very own Holocaust. 
Casual remarks were like concentration camps, reuniting divided families in chambers gassed. 
Vocal terrorism, with every sentence ending in beheading.
The scars you left were like brands by iron rod on broken hearts.

Vidhava.

The stark contrast between the brown sand
and the bright orange flame of funeral pyre,
set her mind ablaze with her own devastation,
now that life had changed in an instant.

Despite her own bereavement,
or the insurmountable grief corroding her,
her own children’s accusatory stares
convinced her she was somehow responsible.

Once expected to self-immolate,
for a life without a spouse was not worth living,
fortunately some progress had been made,
now her exile was all that was required.

Plaited hair removed in patches,
revealing the tender scalp it covered.
A woman’s worth has no value,
in patriarchal lands ruled by tradition.

Alas, this sacrament was all for religion,
as she received the white sari that was now her only uniform.
Stripped of her name, she joined her renounced sisters,
in this ashram built on the tears of women who knew her pain.

There is no social death like widowhood:
the loss of one’s spouse, status, and title in a day.
Punishment for the misfortune of being female,
her existence ostracized
until she also believes that she has failed.

The Visit.

Silhouettes and photographs, 

through the graveyard, 

walking fast, 

Depression era screenplays, 

around the corner 

fudge is made.

Streets now broken

once were paved, 

dystopian playground 

that can't be saved

blasting off like 

rocketships, 

careful to mind 

broken hips.

Steadfast like masts 

on olden ships, 

chocolate cookies 

without the chips, 

a bust of a long 

forgotten mannequin, 

shares cobwebs and dust 

with lustful novels harlequin.

Pornography disguised as romance, 

good for nothing more than laughs, 

that once filled the room, 

then caked the walls;

the floral prints inside the hall.

Buttons strewn across the floor,

sensible spools of yarn,

and cutting boards,

I memorize ev'ry cracked tile,

one day, I will emulate her style.

When all things old are new again,

and I wish I’d paid closer attention.

Careless clouds of smoke 

billowed with each puff,

of her menthol cigarettes

that made me cough.

Murder mysteries flashed 

on the silver screen,

whodunits solved by 

faded beauty queens.

She relives her glory days,

filled with movie stars 

and runaways.

Yesterday always sounds so neat,

when she talks of brawls 

that spilled into the street.

The ruthless record player slows to a halt;

hair once fiery red is now pepper-salt.

Classically beautiful, 

reeking of sophistication,

a kiss placed on each cheek, 

I'm fascinated.

My connection to the golden age

closes the door, 

then waltzes away.

Unbeknownst to me,

this would be the last time,

I would sip mint juleps 

and drink sherry wine.

My fairy grandmother 

slipped away that night,

dancing off into the starry light.