My ashtray bore an evanescent heart and blood
dripped from its barb wire fixings.
Perhaps a modern design of minor
incidence, justly so.
It asked her to surrender all temptations
to a wealthy stranger of arrangement.
When begging for the presence of self,
disapproving men raise voices of mania.
It was the time to marry and
the time to leave.
Navigating the twilight of India
refuge may never be claimed.
Her one possession is her guile,
a gypsy unto the streets.
Grass is snake-tongued on
the other side of the bazaar.
However the future may be,
she is an outcast.
Yet she wanders farther
on the issue of arranged marriages in the Indian, and other cultures', tradition.
the love you withhold is the pain you carry.