WE, THE PEOPLE OF INDIA, ARE DYING.
Here with only hours to spare, air
leaving the lungs, families rush
from hospital to hospital
begging for a breath, for a bed
while opulent hotel rooms
offer a hundred covid beds
for members of justice.
Here votes matter, deaths don’t.
Politicians ride chariots, strut
through reckless rallies and
use words liberally:
“Nothing to panic. It’s all imaginary.”
“No need for masks, why worry?”
“After all, everyone has to die eventually”.
Here the gravedigger works 24-hour shifts,
his gloves left behind to
avoid the spade from slipping.
It is Ramzan but he must have water before
he goes on- turning the earth, getting the body
removing it from the makeshift ambulance
burying it faster than he can count.
The priest works equally—
he prays for a hundred pyres, stokes the fires, and
this pandemic pandit of sorts walks round-the-clock
through this burning mess
roll calling names as the flames get warm enough.
Here the departed lie outside
community-built crematoriums.
No marigold, no silk, no sandalwood
to adorn the tired bodies.
Carefully wrapped in outrage, in anguish
they find kinship and unity
these souls on stand-by
waiting for an undignified exit.
ENDLESSLY EMERGING IN BODY BAGS ON GURNEYS—ONE, TWO, THREE DEATHS PER MINUTE, OVER FOUR THOUSAND IN 24 HOURS—ON THIS DAY OF MAY 2021, WE MOURN IN THE MAKING OF THIS REPUBLIC AND QUESTION HEREBY HOW TO ADOPT, ENACT AND GIVE TO OURSELVES THIS CONSTITUTION.
Monica Korde, is a poet from India, currently living in Belmont, California. Along with writing poems, she reads at several virtual poetry readings hosted in the Bay area and regularly co-hosts an online poetry open mic. Her poetry has appeared online on the website of San Francisco Public Library, on YouTube published by local poetry open mics, and in anthologies.
