Red chillies spread on a reed mat.
Deeper in our skins
the women.

Where are things called homes
sticky with toil; need after need
tempts the fates to touch them,
trap the homely embarrassed hurt.

Year after year
like onions and herbs hung out to dry
their hearts heavy
the quiet too long.

What do they live for
beyond the veils of innocent prayer
the climb up and down the holy stairs?

They seed, though.

They close their eyes everywhere
to that end
airing the poise of a flower.