my grandma uses camphor

to start her ritual of praying

to greet the goddesses

revered by every thing living

come diwali my sister and I

are loved and prayed to:

because we are saraswati

and lakshmi; wealth and wisdom

on other days her ripped jeans

tears the family apart and my blouse

too deep shows the cleavage of my own,

and of society, and then, agony awaits the streets

while guilt enjoys the view as if on a retreat.

the same camphor lights a fire

that is too hard to put out

she doesn’t know that fire is

both: warming and consuming