
I am a small ugly woman
whom God, for reasons known only to him,
decided to persecute with holiness.
I have attempted to lose myself
all my life, but he who never forgets
held mirrors up everywhere I turned.
Now I’ve died and they have found the “darkness”
I knew since Calcutta, the absence that sat
like an ugly child on my chest.
I became their narrow fingers reaching out
from filth, their stench no water
could rinse away, their deaths held too tightly
for too long. I became their blank eyes
and finally saw everything. Yet I
knelt beside them dry-eyed and tireless.
I prayed when I had nothing left
but word
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