She came to sell me flowers. But they were dead in her hands.
The flowers were curled, sleeping inside themselves, and she looked
at me with her flat eyes and did not see me, could not feel the
people brushing past. She asked me to buy her flowers, because if
she stopped asking she might as well die.
She wears a bruise on her face, almost pretty like a cherry.
And when she cries, they must be dry tears. She is striped like
an animal.
She came to sell me flowers. Where she lives there are no flowers.
Nothing grows. The rain hangs itself. Sunlight shivers into cracks
and corners. The earth is black and hard, and it does not yield.
Loud speakers play new songs, but without music. There are bright
sarees and shiny posters, but there is no color. There are kisses and
caresses, but not in love.
When she puts the flowers down, they coil into the floor.
Beauty that others will take into their calloused palms and pull apart,
scattering petals. Beauty to grind and shred between fingers.
In the morning, the petals find themselves and the flowers return to the roads.
She wanted me to buy her flowers, but what could I do?
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