In the sterile room
Kesava holds her lover’s body
as if her arms can stop the cycles,
or at least bring her back
to this hospital’s ward.
Half a world away
the Ganges’ currents reverse
and she cries her loss
in jasmine tears,
a fragrant silence.
What good
is the delicate shade
of saffron rice
and licorice-sweet taste
of fennel seed
when Aditi is
not here to share them?
When did the sitar
strings break, leaving
the crescent notes
of her Punjabi tongue
alone
in the empty air?
Why did she buy
so many boxes of cookies
and Kleenex?
Isn’t this America –
where things never run out?
The image of stocked shelves
stares at her
like a questioning child.
She has no more answers to give –
Aditi is gone.
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