Ma drapes herself in white,a saree edged with red;Grandma’s crescent moon,now a battle, outcome unknown.Each morning, colour fadesas she reads Virginia Woolf;the saree, then,an almost shade of red.Lights off, doors closed,stick reeks of Plath’s pain.Hands, hold on to bones,narrating aching tales,mistaken for sunflowers.One spectatorpeeps out, stealing glances;eyes met,and suddenly,the city is hit with flood, of […]