four cities.

Visakhapatnam.

A glass coffin tethered by electricity,

creating a refrigerator to preserve death

until far-away relatives could pay their respects.

But the cold couldn’t stop the smell of decay,

which hung in the night air.

An intrusion of intimacy drifted toward

the American foreigners who walked by,

chancing upon the porch-side reverie.

Not knowing how to pay our respects,

we continued to walk by.

Varanasi.

Bloodied goat hides smattered along the sides of the roads,

preparation for an Islam holy day.

If not for the binding traffic and the sudden

stops of our tuk tuk driver,

struggling against our weight,

I might’ve missed it.

A body raised high on a platform

above the heads of those who carried it.

The heat of the incense and the weight

of the mantras sung in the air lingered far longer than the

tight traffic our tuk tuk driver muddled through.

Chennai.

The flash of the ambulance lights,

pulled far to the side of the road.

Several other cars followed suit.

I saw sneakered feet sticking out into the road, limp and strangled.

Don’t look! as we drove by.

Too late, my mind saw what I didn’t want it to.

A young boy crashed his motorcycle,

looked far too young to be driving,

in my country as well as this one.

Stones outlined the stilled body,

And the paramedics made no attempt to breach the fortified circle.

It was too late when they got there.

They just stood and stared.

Everyone just stared.

Jaipur.

Like Varanasi, but these streets didn’t narrow you in

with crumbling colonial facades.

Rather you were narrowed in by the expanse of the roads,

cars stalled endlessly on the dusted highways.

The walking procession weaved their way through

the otherwise impenetrable traffic.

The shrouded body swung lifelessly

to the rhythm of the mourners,

carrying their bereaved burden on their shoulders.

The chants absorbed into the broiling aluminum of

motorized transportation, forever sealing that moment of grief,

trailing behind.