The limbs of India ache in the synecdoche
Of shadows: pulled by politicians, stretched
By generations of prisoners inside themselves.
Within the belly of a little village (nonexistent
On the map) are two clay idols of deities. they
Carve soft notes at night: I’ve heard winds
That howls out of nowhere.
These neighbors are unknown to a warrior
From the thirties. She curses the missed spot
On her forehead and aligns smeared sindoor
With the calculated parting.