What will she wear for the funeral?
In the place she used to live one dons white.
Where she lives now black is the norm.
Grief has more colours and fabrics,
and most shades remain unnoticed.
The week passes by. Its semi-synthetic,
perchance a chiffon, wet because of a cloud
that had a panic attack, plays with light,
and memories of the flesh.
On her bed the pile of yesterdays
roll out a mothball. The one died,
always loved its scent; it used to
open some childhood’s door.
She decides to wear the door for the funeral,
a closed door, a notice hanging from its
rusty knob _ ‘The Dweller Has Moved Out.’
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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor
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