By Indira Ghosh
Her,
a dam in distress.
Let her flow through your veins-
She lives in me.
I am her devotee.
Pour her on me.
A contaminated reservoir,
still whispering she is clean.
In the Arctic, she shivers-frozen,
standing as the tip of an iceberg.
At home, still lakes,
coated in blue-green algae.
She pleases, let all float ,walk on her,
They named her Dead Sea.
Her tomorrows spill.
Now, everywhere she goes,
they call her Half Empty.
She grew from oceans,
bathed in a saline womb.
Untouched shores once cradled her-
now canals funnel her into concrete streams.
She moulds into everything-
glacier, gulf, puddle, spring.
You may store her in tanks, in jugs, in beaks-
but tell me, who is she now?
She’s in my throat:
if present, a flood;
if absent, a famine.
She evaporates into clouds,
she flows, she waves, she drowns.
She rains and rains-
turns into acid rain.