Euphemisms

phool chugna: to pick flowers as if a bird 

pecking at a piece of bread.

To pick flowers is to pick bones

from the embers once the body

has been burning for two nights.

The men execute alone — 

Hindus do not want anyone 

crying beside the dead.

Death is a note in the rhythm of life, 

not the coda. The scriptures think

only women cry. I think of Kaali

who believes death is a translation 

of matter; she wants to pick her

bones from her cremains.

The men shove their calloused 

fingers in the many small, and still 

warm, black and white mountains

of ash, looking for bones — beaks 

of crows picking on a carcass. 

I do not understand why these 

men are so rough with her.

My fingers are moving as if

caressing a flame. I pick one

small, cylindrical flower, dip

it in ash, rub it behind both

my ears, between my brows,

behind elbows and knees,

make an impermanent tattoo

around my wrist. Afraid 

my hard stare might tear

the flower apart, I close 

my eyes. I turn around 

so no one can see me stretch

my t-shirt, and run a dark line

in the middle of my chest.

I dip my finger in one

of the many mountains

and thumb the ashen tip

on my eyelids, then at last

on my navel, waiting

for the grains to seep

through my skin.