By Anshuman Gaur
A sickly penumbra
spills from the streetlamp
Filtered through the skeletal fretwork
of a smog-smothered tree
In a net of shadows
She waits—
not in darkness
not yet in light
Her synthetic saree,
with its print of large purple and orange flowers
drawn tight
against the chill
of a dusty October night
Near the crossing,
where the narrow lanes diverge—
not like tedious arguments,
but gangrenous veins
on this wasted limb of the city
An unwanted gesture
A passing car slows down
before speeding away
She looks up at the crimson sky
The moon is an ugly scar
on the pockmarked face of night
The car returns,
caught in its light
briefly, she shines bright