The Mumbai Blast

Across the street from the Mumbai Western Railway, the station
was scattered with fractured love,
with shredded hope
of cleaved flowers,
dead mice,
angry servants;
things we could kill with our own bombs… or hands… or fear… given time.

Children waiting, mothers, fathers- transient- passing- gone. Waiting.
Hungry; hungry for work or worship… whichever came first,
but not death blasting its marked solitude
of splintered joy in moist fragrance,
pierced skin
the color of kings wrapped in flags.