Meenakshi
Each nightfall she braids three rivers into knots of silence, anchors their shores to a corner of fallen sky and leaves for the lost land of moon-wells You wont find her she sleeps in a sand-bed crumpled like a paper moon on the lips of the Indus The delta has died and left its gray ghost upon the banks of her shoulders She wears it like a mantle of flowers ©2011 Sophia Pandeya
